by Jenna Jaxon
“I have waited many years to come to England, to find you, to tell you that you have a daughter.”
His gaze narrowed, his frigid manner now complete. “I sincerely doubt that, Miss d’Aventure. Despite what your mother may have told you, I suggest you are indeed Miss d’Aventure, the daughter of a wine merchant.”
Icy fingers of rage touched the back of Gabriella’s neck. “You would accuse my mother of lying to me?”
The duke shrugged. “She would not be the first woman to do so. I will admit that I knew your mother when she was a young girl, and we spent a week together in her home. But after I left her, I heard nothing whatsoever from her.”
Gabriella’s anger rose to a white hot flame. He had offered no hope, had told her mother they could not marry. What had he expected from her then?
“In twenty years, I have not heard one word.” His face had darkened, his thick brows almost touching his nose. “I made her swear to me that if she discovered she was with child, she would tell me. I was betrothed to another woman, but I would have broken with her if Veronique had told me there was a child. I waited…” He threw up his hand. “It makes no difference now. The past is past. I am sorry, mademoiselle, but you are not my daughter.” The duke strode past her, muttering, “I cannot think why she would have told you such a thing and sent you to find me.” He whirled toward Gabriella, sneering. “Does she need money now her husband is dead?”
Stunned by the cruelty of his words, Gabriella drew herself up as tall as possible, stared him in the face, and narrowed her eyes. “Non. My mother wants for nothing. She does not know I am here. I did not tell her because I did not think she would allow me to come.”
“You are likely correct.” Rother bowed, chilly as a winter’s night. “Good day, Miss d’Aventure. Lady Celinda.” With a fierce scowl, he marched out of the room.
Gabriella swayed. The room turned black at the edges. Then she was seated on one of the dainty gilt chairs, Lady Celinda pressing a cool glass into her hand.
“Drink this. It tastes nasty, but it will help.”
Gabriella raised the glass to her nose, inhaling the sweet aroma of French cognac, like a breath of home. She tilted the glass, allowing the rich liquor to burn all the way into her stomach. It would take many tumblers of this excellent vintage to erase the humiliation the Duke of Rother had heaped upon her and her family today.
“Oh, Miss d’Aventure.” Lady Celinda plucked the almost-empty glass from her fingers. “I am attempting to keep you from fainting, not trying to make you foxed.”
Gabriella continued to hold her hand out. “Apparently, I am the daughter of a wine merchant. Perhaps that explains my affinity.” She nodded toward the glass.
With a sigh, Lady Celinda poured another dollop of the amber spirit into Gabriella’s glass and handed it to her. “Do you believe the duke?”
Gabriella stared into the swirling liquid. “My mother has never told me anything other than that the duke is my father. But she never told me he made her swear to contact him if she found herself with child. Why would she not write to him? Unless…” Unless she were in truth not the duke’s daughter. It did not bear thinking about. She took another comforting sip, the burn now melting into a glow. “I must remember to apologize to Horace. He asked me for proof as well. No wonder there is none.”
“But there is proof, Miss d’Adventure, if only anyone would look to see it.” Lady Celinda set the decanter back on the sideboard and pressed the stopper in with a vengeance.
“Please call me Gabriella, my lady.” She sipped again, and her tension ebbed. “What proof can there be?”
Lady Celinda seated herself across from Gabriella. “The proof I saw with my own eyes. Anyone could see it just by looking at you and His Grace together.”
“What do you mean? Other than the color of our eyes, we do not resemble one another at all.”
“Au contraire,” Lady Celinda said, a secretive smile on her lips. “Just now, when you were both talking,” she motioned to the empty carpet, “it was as though I watched a person arguing with their self. It is true you do not resemble the duke in either features or coloring, other than your eyes. However, the way you stand, the set of your shoulders, the determination in your jaw.” She shook her head. “If you appeared in public together, the gossip would spread so quickly you couldn’t poke your head out of the house the next day.”
“He will never see it, my lady. And even if it is true, why did my mother not write to him?” Mon Dieu, what a mess she’d made of her life coming to England. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
Lady Celinda shrugged. “You will have to ask her, but I assume she had good reasons.” She cocked her head. “What will you do now?”
“Return to Lady Chalgrove. I have no other choice at the moment. But,” she wiped her face with the back of her hand, “I still have Horace.” She smiled, imagining his happiness when she told him there would be no impediment to their marriage now. “We wish to marry, you see. I suppose I could open a modiste’s shop here in London. If he could continue to work as a valet for the marquess, we could build a life of our own. I had worried the duke would insist on my marrying a man of the nobility, but that is no longer a concern.”
Lady Celinda opened her mouth then abruptly shut it and smiled. “Love will always find a way, won’t it? Come, we must get you back to Lady Hamilton’s before you are missed. That would truly be the topping on the cake.”
The quiet carriage ride back to Lady Hamilton’s gave Gabriella time to plan. Without the duke’s acknowledgment of her and the hope of him being a part of her life, the possible pathways to a happy life were few. The overwhelming choice would be marriage to Horace. In time, she’d write her mother and ask about the duke’s claim that she swore to write him if she were with child. Meanwhile, she would look to Horace for her happiness.
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of Lady Hamilton’s. Now to steal back up to Lady Chalgrove’s chamber as if none of this had occurred. “I should go up the servant’s stairs, my lady.”
Lady Celinda nodded. “Allow me to go in first. I will get rid of the butler and give you a chance to steal down to the servant’s hall.” She marched up the steps to the front door, hand raised to the knocker, when the door jerked open.
Tate looked past Lady Celinda to Gabriella. His eyes narrowed, making her catch her breath. He pursed his lips in disapproval. “At last.”
Lady Celinda sent her a stricken look, but plastered a smile on her face and stepped over the threshold.
Dread descended on Gabriella like a suffocating cloak. She swallowed hard, her mouth drying under Tate’s unfriendly glare. Something must have happened and her absence discovered. Her luck was certainly out today. Nothing to do but go forward, however. Resolutely, she followed Lady Celinda into the house.
“She is here, my lady.” The butler’s disapproving tone sounded like a nail in her coffin.
Unsure whether the man meant her or Lady Celinda, Gabriella sped past the butler, praying she could reach the stairs.
Tate immediately blocked her way. “Lady Hamilton and Lady Chalgrove require your presence, Miss d’Aventure.”
The sinking feeling she’d ignored earlier returned, and her stomach rolled. Better to have drunk herself into oblivion at Lady Celinda’s home than fall victim to what would certainly be a very public disgrace here at Lady Hamilton’s. Squaring her shoulders, she nodded and turned toward the crowded drawing room.
At first glance, the room appeared to contain every lady in London. When her vision cleared, however, she could tell there were only five. Lady Ivor and her two younger daughters seated on the sofa, all three pairs of eyes wide and staring at her. Then the two women in companion wing-backed chairs, Lady Hamilton, gracefully calm, and Lady Chalgrove, glowering directly at her. A gentleman stood at the sideboard, his back to her, thank goodness.
“Where have you been, Gabriella?” Lady Chalgrove’s shrill voice shattered the hushed silence.
; “I asked her to accompany me, my lady.” Lady Celinda spoke up quickly.
God bless the lady. Speech seemed beyond Gabriella at the moment.
“There was an emergency with one of my gowns, the one I am to wear tonight.” Lady Celinda spoke with such conviction that Gabriella would have believed her had she not known the truth. “I knew of Miss d’Aventure’s excellent sewing skills from a conversation with Lady Chalgrove, so I thought she would be able to help me.”
“What kind of emergency, Lady Celinda?”
“Uh, there was a rip in my gown that would have ruined it, had not Miss d’Adventure used all her talents to mend it.” Lady Celinda cut her gaze to Gabriella, but she could think of nothing to help bolster the story.
“Then why did you not ask me for the loan of my maid?” Lady Chalgrove’s voice stabbed like icicles in the too-quiet room.
“I…I…” Lady Celinda cast her gaze at her mother, but that lady simply shrugged.
“Why did you change your gown, madame?” Gabriella spoke as much to create a distraction as from a wish to know what on earth had happened while she was gone. Her Ladyship had been wearing a cream and pink checked gown when she went down to receive callers. Now she sat in her blue taffeta, the sleeves mashed slightly and her coiffure straggling from beneath her cap.
“So kind of you to ask, Gabriella. Especially when I needed you to help me with a true emergency. Lord Halford spilled tea on my gown, and you were nowhere to be found.
“Forgive me, madame. I did not think I would be needed.” Gabriella kept her gaze firmly on the floor. If she prayed very hard, perhaps all would be forgiven.
“In that you are correct. I require the services of a maid I can depend upon. Not a lazy girl who gallivants about the town willy-nilly. Therefore,” Lady Chalgrove lifted her chin, triumph in her flaring nose, “I no longer require your services, Miss d’Aventure.” The woman’s smile would have curdled cream. “Without reference and without pay.”
Gabriella couldn’t breathe. Little as she liked working for the comtesse, the position had kept her employed for months. She’d been housed, clothed, and fed more or less comfortably, but her quarterly salary had not yet come due, and she’d spent the last of her money on the materials to make this lutestring gown. Now she would have nothing.
“Hal,” Lady Celinda called to the gentleman standing at the sideboard.
His back stiffened, but he did not turn around.
“Hal, you must do something.” The lady went to him, plucked at his arm. “You must explain.”
“I do not see that this is any of Lord Halford’s business, Lady Celinda,” Lady Chalgrove snapped.
“Actually it is my business, Lady Chalgrove.” The man turned toward her.
Gabriella shook her head and blinked. The man looked just like… “Horace?” Was this some mad waking dream brought on by too much cognac? But there he stood, Horace, resplendent in the elegant dress of a nobleman. And they were calling him Lord Halford.
He opened his mouth then darted toward her as the edges of her vision became gray and then inexplicably black.
Chapter 9
Gabriella opened her eyes, squinting at the bright sunlight streaming through the window of a room she couldn’t place. She sat up, thoroughly confused. The tall bed, expensive oak with four posters and a canopy of white ruffled material, was softer than any she’d lain on in her life. Darker furniture stood out against delicate pink walls, all totally unfamiliar. Even the white gown she wore—long sleeves edged in expensive Cluny lace—was not her own. Perhaps she could tell where she was if she looked out the window. Some landmark might reveal her whereabouts. She threw back the covers and prepared to slide the long way to the ground.
The door opened, admitting a petite dark-haired maid bearing a tray. “Good morning, miss.” She set the tray on the dressing table and bobbed a curtsy. “Shall I pour your tea?”
“Who are you? Where am I?” Panic sat at the edge of her mind, ready to run rampant through her.
“I’m Ann, miss, the upstairs maid. This is Holly House.” Ann poured tea into a cup. “Sugar or milk?”
“What is Holly House?” Had she been placed in an asylum? “Where is it?” Confusion and fear made her voice sharper than it should have been. She was sorry for that, but she needed to know now.
“This is Lord Ivor’s house, in London, miss. Shall I tell Lady Celinda you’re awake? They’ve all been in a state since yesterday.” The maid handed her the teacup, and Gabriella drank it automatically, scarcely noting the lack of sweetness.
Lady Celinda. Recent events sprang to mind so sharply that she rattled her cup in the saucer. The disastrous interview with the duke, her public dismissal, the discovery that Horace was not Horace at all but a marquess came rushing back to her. She shuddered, chills running up and down her arms. She thrust the tea back at the maid, afraid she’d cast up her accounts should she drink more. Life was a bête noire, and that beast had seized her in its teeth to carry her away from everything she’d known. She flung herself back onto the pillows, tears springing from her eyes. Her life, once so perfect in France, now il était l’enfer.
Even through her tears, the scurry of the maid leaving the room penetrated the fog of despair. She must control herself. She was at the mercy of strangers, although Lady Celinda, at least, was her friend. Still, she must cease this pity and make plans. She must think only of the future. Not of Horace.
Pain ripped through her heart at the thought of his name. Who was he? Why had he lied to her? What did he want from her? Fresh grief at the loss of her love brought on more tears, so hot in her throat they scalded her inside and out. If she could die right here and now, it would be a great kindness from le Bon Dieu.
“Gabriella?”
She sat up, rubbing at the tears.
Lady Celinda stood at the side of the bed. “My dear, I am so relieved to have you back with us.”
Gabriella burst into renewed tears. Oh, the kindness of this lady hurt as badly as the scorn of Lady Chalgrove.
Lady Celinda gathered her into her arms, and Gabriella wailed like a child who had lost its mother. “Shh. It will be all right, Gabriella.” The sweet sympathy and warm embrace only made her cry harder, grief for everything she’d lost billowing out against Lady Celinda’s small shoulder.
“It cannot be all…all right. Nothing is right now. I have nothing and no one to help me.” She hitched in a breath then another, trying to calm herself.
“You do have someone. You have my friendship and the friendship and protection of my family.” Lady Celinda patted her arm and drew back, looking into her face.
Her sweetly concerned blue eyes made Gabriella take a deep breath and shake off the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. The tears receded.
“Do not fret about anything for the moment. You’re here as my particular friend and will remain so until we’ve sorted everything out.” She smiled so brightly that for a fleeting moment Gabriella believed her, believed that the shattered fragments of her life could be made right again.
Then the horror of yesterday settled on her again. “That will never happen.”
She fell back onto the bed, suddenly bereft of spirit. What did it matter? She no longer had a mission in her life. Both the men who’d had so much promise had deserted her. Nothing remained save to return to France and live out her life without her love or her dream.
“Come, you have more spirit than that, Gabriella.” A warm touch on her shoulder only made her feel worse. “I witnessed it yesterday before the duke. We can make this right if you have faith in me, and in Lord Halford.”
“Lord Halford! Oh, do not speak to me of that wretch.” Gabriella bounced up in the bed. “Who is he? And why did he lie?”
“He is Jonathan George…and several more names I can’t even remember. His title is Marquess of Halford, though I mostly call him Hal. We are distant cousins.” Lady Celinda stood over her, lips firm. “And he is very much in love with you.”
“How can you say such a thing?” Anger was better than tears. “He has lied to me from the moment we met, saying he is a valet. His own valet.” She peered at her ladyship. “Does he even have a valet?”
Lady Celinda smiled and straightened the covers. “Yes, Horace Carpenter does exist. He is Hal’s manservant.” She laughed. “But not nearly as tall or handsome as Hal and quite a bit older.” Lady Celinda gazed at Gabriella and moistened her lips. “Hal would like to speak to you, Gabriella.”
“Oh, so he can tell me more lies?” Gabriella gathered the covers over her and shook her head. “Non. Please tell him I will not see him, my lady. I have no words for him.”
“Please call me Celinda. You are my guest here, so it’s only right.” She looked longingly at Gabriella. “I beg you to reconsider. Hal’s been sending notes every hour, it seems, asking if you’ve awakened, how you slept, if he may call upon you. He truly loves you, Gabriella.”
“He cannot love me if all his words are lies.” Her memories of him were tainted now—how could she distinguish the lies from the truth?
“Not everything has been a lie, you know.” Celinda sat on the bed at her feet. “He only said he was a valet because he wanted to talk to you without all the trappings of his title. He hates the society parties, society ladies. He thought if you knew he was a marquess you might run away, or worse, see him only as a marquess.” Celinda shook her head. “Hal does odd or outrageous things sometimes. It’s in his nature, as much as being stubborn is in yours.”
“I am not—”
“I beg to differ, mademoiselle.” Her new friend held out her hand to stop her comment. “You are almost as stubborn as Hal, although not nearly as much as the Duke of Rother.” Celinda smiled and took her friend’s hands. “I wasn’t shocked that Hal pretended to be someone else. It’s part of Hal, who he is. He’s never liked the life of a society dandy and has done some rather eccentric things to keep from being part of it. Saying that he was his valet is quite tame in comparison to some of his antics.”
