“I’m not a babe,” he’d muttered at his coddled eggs.
“You’re only five, and I’m seven,” Fi pointed out in lofty tones. “And everyone knows that boys take longer than girls to grow up. Taking that into account, you’re more like three. It’s a fact of nature; there’s naught you can do about it.”
Faced with Fi’s poise and rather daunting logic, Max—who’d inherited his papa’s dark coloring and his mama’s shyness—had turned pleading brown eyes to Gabby. Her heart had melted seeing his flushed, chubby cheeks and quivering bottom lip.
“It’s not nice to tease your brother,” Gabby had said.
“It’s not teasing if it’s the truth.” Tossing her auburn ringlets, Fiona had turned to Adam, who’d remained absorbed in his newspaper during the exchange. “Besides, a gentleman is supposed to be strong. He isn’t supposed to cry, is he, Papa?”
“A gentleman must be master of himself,” came Adam’s reply. “Self-discipline before sentiment. Always.”
Max’s eyes sheened. Gabby didn’t think he fully understood what his father meant, but the stern tone was enough of a reprimand. He quickly blinked, then lowered his head, shoveling in a bite of eggs.
“And if one is going to do a thing, one should do it properly,” Fi went on triumphantly. “Isn’t that what you always say, Papa? Please may I have the real thing…instead of this silly toy Mama bought?”
Adam had lowered his newspaper long enough to give his firstborn an indulgent look and his usual response to her requests. “Whatever you’d like, poppet.”
Fiona’s carte blanche had resulted in the footmen building the present stage, which took up a third of the large sitting room. Behind the closed blue velvet curtains, the whispering and giggles of the would-be performers could be heard as they readied for their show.
Gabby wished Adam was here. In fact, she wished he was anywhere but where he presently was. The worry she’d been keeping at bay surged, her fingers lacing tightly in her lap.
“You must keep a firmer rein on the children. On my hellion of a granddaughter especially,” her father lectured. “You’re far too soft, Gabriella. Who will look after you when I’m gone?”
“Oh, Father, please don’t talk of—”
“I won’t be here forever,” he muttered. “But whatever Garrity does, he cannot get his hands on your money. Thank God I set up that trust to protect you and the children.”
Before Gabby could reply, a gong sounded five times. Five minutes until the show started.
“Go attend to your guests, Gabriella.” Due to his illness, her father had abrupt spells of fatigue. He yawned, his eyelids suddenly drooping. “I’ll watch the play from here.”
Seeing that he was nodding off, she tucked the blankets more securely around him and went to join her friends in the row of chairs facing the stage. They’d saved her the seat between Polly, the Duchess of Acton and Emma, the Duchess of Strathaven, the dukes occupying the chairs beside their respective ladies.
“Is your papa all right, Gabby?” The soft inquiry came from Polly, who was ravishingly pretty with golden-brown hair and aquamarine eyes. She was also sweet and sensitive, with an uncanny knack for guessing what one was feeling.
“He’s fine. He was just asking about Mr. Garrity,” Gabby admitted.
Earlier, she’d told her guests that Adam was off on a mission with Tessa and Harry Kent. She hadn’t felt right withholding that information since Harry was the duchesses’ brother. Not wanting to cause undue concern, however, she’d kept the details to a minimum.
“I do wish Harry had informed us about this ‘meeting’ tonight,” Emma, the Duchess of Strathaven said.
Gabby had met Emma a decade ago, before the other’s marriage to the tall, dark, and wickedly handsome Strathaven. She would be forever grateful to Em for befriending her at a party; to this day, the duchess was one of the most sensible, kind, and down-to-earth ladies of Gabby’s acquaintance.
“The mission came up at the last minute,” Gabby said quickly. “I’m sure he would have told you otherwise.”
“If Harry had let us know, we could have lent a hand,” Emma muttered.
“That is precisely why your brother didn’t say anything, pet,” Strathaven said dryly.
Emma frowned. “I don’t follow.”
“Harry’s quite capable of handling his own affairs and a private fellow by nature. Not to mention, he has married into one of London’s most formidable families.” The duke quirked a dark brow. “Can you blame the man for avoiding his meddling sisters?”
“I don’t meddle.” Emma narrowed her tea-colored gaze at her husband. “I simply offer my assistance where it’s warranted.”
“You involved yourself in a murder investigation where the main suspect was an absolute stranger. Then you proceeded to torment and entice him in equal measure. And I should know,” Strathaven said, his jade eyes gleaming, “since I was that stranger.”
Although her cheeks were pink, Em said determinedly, “You have to admit you needed my help, Alaric.”
“Oh, I needed you all right,” her duke drawled softly. “Still do, as a matter of fact.”
Gabby hid a wistful smile. This sort of bantering was typical amongst her friends. Acton, a dark-haired Adonis with midnight blue eyes, took this as his cue to whisper something in his duchess’s ear. Polly turned charmingly rosy, her hand fluttering to rest on her midsection. Although the swell was not yet visible, she’d confided to Gabby that she and her duke were expecting their second child next summer.
Surrounded by the openly affectionate couples, Gabby felt a queer pang…which she quickly relegated to her Do Not Mope Over box. She was lucky to have a husband like Adam, who was a generous provider and took splendid care of her and the children. During his proposal, he’d been frank about his stance on romantic love, and she’d agreed to his terms.
She told herself that she was perfectly content with having a husband who was faithful and caring. It would be foolish to long for more, especially given her own paucity of charms. It was enough that Adam accepted her and never made her feel stupid or gauche when she couldn’t hold back her professions of love. He was the best of husbands.
And he could be at this minute facing down a cutthroat.
Desperate fear spread through her. Her gaze flew to the cart of refreshments that the butler had wheeled in. Perhaps she could take the edge off by nibbling on one of the choux pastries stuffed with hazelnut cream…
A series of piano chords cut through her thoughts. Miss Thornton, the children’s governess, had taken her seat before the instrument at the side of the stage, and her crisp crescendo of notes heralded the start of the play.
“Ladies and Gentlemen!” From behind the curtains came a high, melodic voice, which Gabby recognized as belonging to Lady Olivia, the Strathavens’ eldest. “Thank you for attending this premier performance of an original work. Prepare yourself for a tale of tragedy and triumph and a spectacle for the ages.”
She paused for Miss Thornton’s suspenseful trills.
“You will witness one girl’s journey from downtrodden scullery maid to celebrated princess. Before your very eyes, you will see her transformation. Our heroine will impress you with her metamorphosis from caterpillar to butterfly…”
“Did you teach Livy that word?” Strathaven murmured to his wife.
“Which word? There are rather many to choose from in this introduction,” Em whispered back.
Her husband’s lips twitched. “Our daughter has inherited your brains, no doubt about it.”
“…and now, without further ado,” their offspring announced, “I invite you all to sit back and immerse yourself in the magic of the theatre. May I present to you the scintillating story of The Princess and the Dancing Slippers!”
The next hour raced by. Gabby was enthralled by the children’s creativity and talent. Fiona was spectacular in her lead role as Princess Gianna, and Lady Olivia sparkled in her various turns as the bosom chum, evil queen
, and stable boy. Lord Christopher, Strathaven’s heir, excelled as the knight in shining armor (made of tin pans tied together with string). Even the Actons’ tot, young Lord Stephan, did a credible job as the dragon, smashing towers of toy blocks with a loud roar.
The only mishap was when poor Max forgot his cue to enter. Cast in the non-speaking role of a tree, he was supposed to appear when Princess Gianna danced her way—thanks to the magic slippers—into the Forest of Mystery. But apparently he developed a case of stage fright, and Fiona could be heard saying in a furious undertone, “Hurry up, dunderhead! You’re supposed to be on!”
He scrambled onto the stage. His pudgy face was shiny with sweat beneath his crown of twigs, his leafy branches trembling. Gabby let out a secret sigh of relief when his part was over and applauded him vigorously as he dashed off the boards.
When the performance ended, the audience jumped to their feet, clapping enthusiastically and crying “Bravo!” and “Encore!” Everyone came out to take their bows…everyone except Max, Gabby noticed with a stab of worry.
As the young actors disappeared behind the curtain to change out of their costumes, Polly touched her arm. “Do you think Maximillian is all right?”
“The poor dear,” Gabby said in a low voice. “He does try, you know.”
“I thought he did a wonderful job.” Emma elbowed her husband. “Don’t you agree, Strathaven?”
“Absolutely. Max nailed the part of the tree.” The duke paused. “He was, er, very leafy.”
“And he’s been so supportive of the others during the rehearsals,” Em added. “Christopher has benefited greatly from Max’s encouragement.”
“Stephan as well,” Polly chimed in.
The children approached in an excited stampede.
“How did you like it?” Lady Olivia demanded of her parents.
“It was an exceptional production, poppet.” Strathaven ruffled her raven ringlets, and she beamed with pleasure.
“What about me?” Standing beside his sister, Lord Christopher looked expectantly at his parents. “Was I good as the knight?”
“You were entirely convincing, lad,” his papa assured him.
“I particularly enjoyed the part where Princess Gianna danced her way to freedom,” Emma said. “It was a wonderful twist that it wasn’t the knight who rescued her in the end, but her belief in her own magic.”
“That part was Fiona’s idea,” Lady Olivia said graciously.
“Well done, Fiona,” Strathaven said.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Fi’s gaze was downcast.
Seeing the other children flanked by their loving parents, Gabby could guess the cause of her daughter’s subdued state. She knew how much Fiona had wanted Adam to see the play: the girl had been talking about it for weeks.
“You were wonderful, dear.” Gabby injected extra brightness into her praise. “You all were.”
Fi traced the ground with the toe of her dancing slipper. “I wish Papa was here to see it.”
“He wanted to be here ever so much,” Gabby said quietly. “But he got called away on an important matter.”
“He always gets called away.”
Of course, Gabby’s father had come over just in time to catch his granddaughter’s statement. Not wanting to add to her papa’s animosity toward Adam or air the family laundry in front of guests, Gabby said, “You can tell Papa all about it later. Now have you seen Max?”
Fiona’s chin jutted out, her blue eyes flashing. “Max, Max, Max! He’s all you care about.”
Caught off-guard by the outburst, Gabby didn’t know how to respond.
“Is that any way to speak to your mama, young lady?” Father cut in. At his reproving frown, his granddaughter lowered her gaze. “You must apologize. At once.”
Fiona’s bottom lip trembled.
“It’s late,” Gabby said quickly. “I’m sure Fiona spoke out of turn because she’s tired. Isn’t that so, dear?”
Casting a nervous glance at her grandpapa, Fiona gave a small nod.
“I think we’ve had enough drama for one evening.” Polly came over, putting a gentle arm around Fiona’s stiff shoulders. “Why don’t we take refreshment with the children while you find Max, Gabby?”
“Thank you.” Gabby summoned a smile. “He and I will be back in a minute.”
She hurried behind the stage, where the children’s governess was tidying up the props and costumes.
“He’s in his bedchamber, ma’am,” Miss Thornton said quietly. “He said he wants to be alone.”
With a nod of thanks, Gabby headed to the adjoining room and knocked on the door.
“Go away,” came Max’s muffled voice.
“It’s me, dear,” Gabby said lightly. “We’re having refreshments now. Don’t you want to celebrate with your friends?”
“No. I don’t want to see anyone. Go away.”
Hearing the hitched breaths that punctuated the words, Gabby turned the knob and went in.
Her son was sitting on the floor beside his bed, his arms around his raised knees. He’d thrown off his crown of twigs but was still wearing the brown burlap tunic that had been part of his costume. At her approach, he raised his head, and her chest ached to see his tear-splotched face. She went and sat next to him on the floor—rather awkwardly, given the bulk of her petticoats.
He dashed the back of his hand across his small face, smudging tears and snot. “I said I want to be left alone.”
“Sometimes I feel that way too.” Rummaging in the hidden pocket of her skirt, Gabby found a rumpled handkerchief and handed it over. “But in the end I feel better after I talk about it.”
Clutching the linen, Max blurted, “I ruined the play.”
“No, you didn’t. The play was ever so good. All the parents thought so—”
“I was the only one who didn’t get it right. I never get anything right.”
Gabby’s heart squeezed. “That’s not true, dear.”
“I’m not like Fiona.” Tears swam in his dark eyes. “Papa loves her best because she’s good at everything.”
“Oh, Max.” Gabby put an arm around her youngest’s slumped shoulders, and he didn’t pull away. “You and Fi are different, as siblings often are. But that doesn’t mean one is better than the other. Papa loves you both equally. I love you both.”
“You have to say that because you’re my mama,” Max sniffled.
“I’m saying it because it’s true,” Gabby said firmly. “You and Fiona are both my angels, and I’m the luckiest mama in the entire world.”
“Truly? You truly think that?”
“Truly, my dearest.”
Max let out a hiccupping sigh. “I’m glad Papa wasn’t here tonight to see me make a hash of things. And to see me blubbering like a babe. You won’t tell him, will you, Mama? Promise me you won’t.”
After a hesitation, Gabby said, “I promise. But there’s no shame in making a mistake, my lamb. Everyone does...I do, certainly. It’s part of life.”
“Papa and Fiona never make mistakes.”
“They do. They’re just more…”—she struggled to find the right words—“poised about it.”
“Why can’t I be like them, Mama?” Max said glumly.
The pain in her child’s eyes made her throat swell. “Because you are yourself, Max. You’re a good boy, and that is what counts.”
“I hope you’re right.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“I’m positive that I am. Do you know what else I know?”
“What?”
“You’ll feel better if you join the others for refreshments.” She ruffled her son’s dark curls, dislodging a few stray leaves. “Cook made your favorite lemon cake.”
Rising, she held out her hand. After a quivery sigh, Max reached out, his small fingers curling around hers. Together they went to join their guests.
9
From the prow of the anchored boat, Adam monitored the situation on the dock. The fighting had just started; as far as
he could tell, neither side had the upper hand. Mayhem ruled the night with gunfire, smoke, and the shouts of brawling men.
In other words, just another day at the office.
Murray emerged from the fray, jumping onto the boat’s deck. Gunpowder streaked his clothes, a shallow cut upon his cheek.
“What’s causing the delay?” Adam asked.
“Sweeney’s got an army,” Murray said through harsh breaths. “They outnumber us.”
Adam removed a pair of pistols from his pockets. Cocked them.
Murray’s brows inched up. “You are going in? Are you certain you want to do that?”
The other’s incredulity grated on Adam’s nerves. Hell, he’d started in this business whilst the other had been toddling around in nappies on a country estate somewhere. Although he didn’t often dirty his hands these days, he had full possession of the skills he’d honed in the streets. There was no bloody reason for Murray to treat him as if he were some ancient relic incapable of handling himself in a fight.
“To get the job done properly, I’ll have to do it myself,” Adam said shortly.
He leapt onto the dock, heading into the heart of the melee.
Through the smoke and grappling figures, he spotted Kerrigan. A brute had Adam’s guard pinned to the ground, a blade poised above the other’s neck. Adam took aim and discharged his pistol; the brute slumped to the side, and Kerrigan shoved him off, sitting up and gasping. Before Adam could go over, he was tackled from behind, his used pistol skittering across the dock.
Adam rolled with his opponent, using momentum to gain the upper hand. He plowed his gloved fist into the other’s face, the crunch of bone a visceral satisfaction. He evaded the other’s clawing hands, landing punch after punch. When he stood over his vanquished foe, bloodlust flowed hotly through his veins.
Leading the charge, he dispatched another pair of villains, one with his pistol, the other with the blade he unsheathed from his boot. Just like old times. His mind was crystal-clear, cold, focused as his muscles burned pleasantly from use. He took on attackers from left and right, leaving a trail of incapacitated enemies in his wake.
Regarding the Duke Page 8
