“Dr. Abernathy is the physician who attended to you,” she said gently. “You were shot, my darling, then hit your head and fell into the Thames. If Mr. Murray, your business associate, hadn’t rescued you, you could have…” Her eyes glimmered with an emotion that caused his heart to stutter. Visibly collecting herself, she went on, “The doctor said that memory loss is not unusual, given the trauma you suffered. But you’re not to worry, Adam. Given rest and time, your memory will come back. The most important thing is that you mustn’t push yourself too hard.”
“My name is Adam?” he pressed. “You are certain of this?”
You’re certain that I am your husband?
“You are Adam Garrity.” The pride in her voice was unmistakable. “One of the most successful businessmen in all of London. You and I have been married for eight years. We have two children, Fiona and Maximillian.”
Christ…I’m a father?
Reeling, he stammered, “H-how old are they?”
“Fiona is seven, Max five. They’re chomping at the bit to see you.” She brushed her fingertips against his jaw, the tender touch quickening his pulse. “You can see them when you’re ready.”
He didn’t know if he was ready to face the small humans he’d apparently sired. Being a father was too much to contemplate on top of everything else. Questions tumbled through his brain.
And Gabriella—she had the answers.
“Do I have other family? Parents? Siblings?” he asked.
She chewed on her plump bottom lip. Her mouth was a deep, natural coral. “You weren’t one to speak about the past. I’m afraid I don’t know very much.”
“Tell me what you know,” he said urgently.
“Your mama died when you were young. Your father had left her soon after their marriage, and you never knew him.” As he absorbed that information, she said hesitantly, “You grew up in the streets of St. Giles, and I believe you were part of a…gang.”
The fact that the news didn’t come as a shock was telling. Indeed, it felt right. As he’d suspected, he hadn’t been born into his present circumstances, a silver spoon stuck in his mouth. His survival instincts were too keen, as if he’d had to fight for everything his entire life. Even now, in this uncanny situation, he had an alley cat’s mentality.
Land on your feet, assess for danger, and claim your territory.
“You’ve risen above your origins.” Gabriella sounded a bit defensive, as if she’d misinterpreted his silence for shame. “You’re a self-made man and a great success.”
“What sort of business am I in?” He scanned for any memory of his so-called success and came up empty. The notion of being a merchant or professional man just didn’t sit right.
“The business of loaning funds,” she replied.
Her meaning sank in.
“I’m a bleeding moneylender?”
“Amongst other things.” She primly folded the handkerchief into a neat square. “You believed in what you termed ‘diversification.’ Your holdings include many properties and investments in industrial ventures and the like. I don’t know all the details—you preferred to keep business matters out of the domestic sphere—but I’m sure Mr. Henry Cornish, your solicitor and man-of-business, could fill you in. And Mr. Wickham Murray, your trusted right-hand man, has been looking after the moneylending side of things in your absence.”
It struck him that he, Adam Garrity, was not merely plump in the pocket, he was as rich as Croesus. Properties and investments? Diversification? Only a toff who was truly wealthy (and, let’s face it, a might pretentious) would use a word like that. As for the fact that he’d made his fortune through usury…it didn’t bother him.
Not one bloody whit.
A moneylender didn’t force people to take his money. He was doing a service and at no small risk for those who borrowed from cent-per-cents were not what one would call a reliable sort. If some cull wanted to hand over his vowels, who was Adam to complain?
As he’d suspected, he wasn’t a man of refined sensibilities. He might not remember his past, but he felt one driving principle within himself, its rhythm as ingrained as that of his heart.
Survive, survive, survive.
“Who shot me?” he demanded.
“It’s a long story.” She bit her lip. “Dr. Abernathy said you weren’t to be stressed.”
“I’ll be more stressed if I don’t know who put a damned hole in my hide.”
Hesitating, she said, “You were helping our friends defeat a villain named Sweeney. He was holding the young daughter of the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville ransom, and you were part of the rescue mission. In the battle, you were shot by one of Sweeney’s henchmen. But Mr. Murray dispatched the shooter, and Sweeney is now in custody and a danger no longer.” Softly, she added, “Glory, the young girl, was saved, in no small part due to your heroic efforts.”
Hmm. He couldn’t quite fathom himself being a hero, but if she said it happened, then it must have. Who was he to question his own valiant behavior? All he knew was that he could get used to that look in her eyes: as if he’d hung the moon and the stars in the sky for her.
At the same time, the gears were slowly turning in his mind, working off the rust. He’d rescued the daughter of a duke, had he? Then the cove owed him a favor. He began to contemplate the sort of boons he might ask from His Grace…
One didn’t do something for nothing. That was the way of the world.
As he schemed, the throbbing in his head increased, along with his assorted aches and pains.
Gabriella’s head tilted alertly. “Where does it hurt, my darling?”
“My head…and other places,” he said, grimacing.
“Dr. Abernathy left some willow bark. It tastes dreadful but will help with the pain. Would you like it?”
He nodded, and she went over to the console again, returning with a small paper packet and another glass of water. He tossed back the yellowish-white powder, gulping water to wash down the bitter tang. He sank into the pillows, struck by a wave of exhaustion.
“The physician said you mustn’t overdo. Healing takes rest and time.” Gabriella’s fingertips flitted over his forehead, the muscles relaxing at her touch. “Do you think you could manage some beef tea and toast?”
At the mention of food, his stomach gave a growl of interest.
A smile tucked into her cheeks. “After you eat, we’ll have Quinn help you with your ablutions.”
“Who’s Quinn?”
“Your valet.”
Bleeding hell, he had a valet. He really had died and gone to heaven.
It struck him fully for the first time. Although he had been shot and nearly drowned and his memory was dashed to smithereens, he was alive. And not only was he alive, look at where he’d ended up. And who he’d ended up with.
As he watched Gabriella go to pull the bell, her pink robe hugging her curvaceous arse, an undercurrent swirled beneath the tides of pain and fatigue. Aye, he was a survivor—and too practical a man to question the good fortune that had fallen into his lap. If he couldn’t remember his past right now, then so be it. The present held plenty of attractions he wanted to explore.
Aye, he’d step into the shoes of that lucky bastard Adam Garrity…whoever he was.
14
The next morning, Gabby went to the nursery to collect the children. Their governess could have brought them to Adam’s suite, but Gabby wanted to speak with them first. They were waiting for her, freshly changed and ready for their visit with their father. Fiona looked charming in her snowy frock with a pink satin sash, the full skirts swishing over her pantalettes. Matching pink bows sat atop the twin clusters of her glossy red ringlets.
Max was in a blue tunic suit, his unruly black forelock defying any comb. Crumbs from breakfast clung to his knee-length shirt and loose trousers. Gabby gestured subtly at the affected areas, and he hastily brushed them off.
“Before we visit Papa,” Gabby began, “you must remember that he has been through an
ordeal and—”
“We’re not to pester him.” Fiona rolled her eyes. “Mama, you’ve reminded us of this at least a hundred times.”
“It’s important, dearest. Your father is doing ever so much better, but he’s having a bit of a problem with his memory, and you mustn’t take that personally. The doctor said it is part of the healing process.”
After his examination yesterday, Dr. Abernathy had declared Adam’s progress most satisfactory: a little over a week and the wound was healing nicely. Gabby had been grateful when he’d instructed Adam to be patient during his convalescence for her husband had, predictably, already started chafing at his loss of memory.
Since waking up yesterday afternoon, he’d bombarded her with a multitude of questions, wanting to know everything about himself. She’d done her best to give him answers while not feeding into his desire to do too much too quickly. It was an exhausting task, akin to trying to keep a panther on a leash.
“Has Papa forgotten us forever?” Max asked in a small voice.
“No, my lamb.” Straightening his collar, Gabby gave him a reassuring smile. “But it may take a while for him to recall all the details. In the meantime, you must be patient with him and, above all, do not disturb his peace—”
“You went through this already, Mama,” Fiona said impatiently. “Max might have a sieve for a brain, but I don’t.”
“I do not have a sieve for a brain.” Max’s cheeks turned red.
“Bacon, then,” his sister retorted.
“I am not bacon-brained!”
“You’re bacon all over. This little piggy went to market…” Fiona chanted.
“Don’t call me a pig!” Max shouted.
“Children,” Gabby began.
They ignored her, tossing arguments back and forth like a ball. Her temples pounded, the muscles tightening at the base of her skull. Worry and lack of sleep had taken their toll, and she felt like an old blanket, fraying at the edges. She tried again to capture her children’s attention; their voices only got louder.
“Fiona and Maximillian, for heaven’s sake, stop bickering.”
The words burst from Gabby, and she didn’t know who was more surprised, she or the children. Although she felt a jab of guilt for her sharp tone, her authority was respected for once. The pair quieted, staring at her with rounded eyes.
She regained her composure. “Fiona, stop teasing your brother. Max, don’t take the bait so readily.”
The children looked at each other, then at her, chorusing, “Yes, Mama.”
“All right.” She exhaled, trying to ease the tightness in her head. “Let us proceed.”
She shepherded her offspring toward Adam’s suite, pausing when Max had to race back to the nursery to fetch something he’d forgotten. He rejoined them, huffing and carrying a book, then he and his sister skipped ahead while Gabby tried to calm her nerves. As relieved as she was that Adam was safely on the mend, a host of other worries swarmed.
When would he regain his memories? How would he be with the children, whom he didn’t remember? What could Gabby do to aid his recovery? And most of all…
Who in God’s name is Jessabelle?
It felt churlish of her to obsess over the unknown female, bovine or otherwise, when there were bigger and more pressing concerns. But she couldn’t help it. No matter how she tried to stuff her suspicions into the Let Sleeping Dogs Lie bin, they refused to be quarantined. The identity of Jessabelle had taken on a monumental sense of importance, for reasons she didn’t completely understand. But it would not leave her alone, festering like a sliver that she could neither remove nor ignore.
She simply had to know. But could she risk adding to Adam’s strain during this precarious time? And even if she found the courage to ask him…would he remember?
Arriving at her husband’s door, she forced herself to concentrate on the visit at hand. This meeting between Adam and the children had to be handled delicately. She didn’t know how Fiona and Max would respond to the changes in their previously larger-than-life papa.
With a ready smile on her face, she knocked and opened the door. “Good morning—”
Fiona flew past her. “Papa! Oh, Papa, I’ve missed you ever so much!”
The girl ran toward the green brocade sofa where Adam was reclined, propped up against pillows. Gabby’s breath held when it looked like Fi might fling herself at him, heedless of his injury…but she stopped just short of the sofa.
Her red ringlets tipping to one side, Fiona said tremulously, “Are you hurt, Papa?”
“I’m doing better.” Adam stared at his daughter, clearly trying to think of what to say next. “Thank you for asking.”
On the surface, he looked more like his old self. Quinn had given him a shave and arranged his ebony hair into its usual slicked-back style. Over his sleepshirt, he wore his maroon dressing gown lined with black silk. With the exception of the yellow bruises on his temple and the visible bulk of the bandage beneath the robe, he appeared almost normal.
His tentativeness, however, was new. His throat bobbed, his gaze flicking between Fiona and Max, who’d come to stand just behind his sister. Gabby couldn’t fathom what it must be like for Adam, seeing his own flesh and blood and having no recollection of them.
“Now that you’ve seen me, don’t you remember me, Papa?” Fiona’s voice had a tell-tale quiver that hurt Gabby’s heart. “You do know me, don’t you?”
Seeing the flare of panic in Adam’s gaze, Gabby cut in. “Now, dear, remember what I said.”
“I’m not pestering Papa.” Fi’s bottom lip wobbled, her precocious poise slipping. “I’m asking a question.”
“That’s fair, Fiona.” Adam cleared his throat. “The truth is that I don’t remember you, your brother, or your mama. Or much of anything before the accident,” he said frankly. “The doctor says the hit to my head shook things up a bit. But I’m hoping that as my injury heals, the memories will return as well.”
Fi stared at him. “How long will it take?”
“No one knows for certain.” He paused. “Although I’ve been thinking…if you and your brother are willing to help me, my memories might return more quickly.”
“How can we help?” Fi wanted to know.
“You can remind me of the things I used to know. The details of my old life might help me to remember the past,” Adam said earnestly, as if he’d given the matter some thought. “You children have a wealth of information you could share with me.”
Fiona looked taken aback; Gabby couldn’t blame her. The Adam before the accident had always been in command, of himself and the universe around him. He was their confident and invincible leader, and everyone had followed along, trying to keep up.
This Adam was doing something the old one had never done: he was asking for help.
As Fiona clearly struggled with how to respond to the changes, Max stepped forward.
“Um, hello, Papa. I’m Maximillian, and I’m five.” He gave a shy bow. “Everyone calls me Max…well, except you. You don’t like pet names, in case you don’t remember.”
Adam looked puzzled. “Why don’t I like pet names?”
“I don’t know why.” Max’s shoulders hitched. “You just don’t. You always call Mama by her full name, not Gabby like her friends do. And you always call me by my full name, although I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to call me Max.”
“I appreciate that, Max.” Adam’s tone was grave, but his eyes glinted with humor. “And thank you. This is precisely the sort of detail that might help me remember more of the past.”
“You’re welcome. I understand what it’s like to forget things.” Flushing, Max held out the book that he’d gone back to the nursery to fetch. “I thought this might help pass the time.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.” Adam took the leather-bound volume, reading the embossed title aloud. “Oriental Tales, Being Moral Selections from the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments Calculated Both to Amuse and Improve the Minds of Youth.
” His lips twitched as his gaze met Gabby’s. “That’s a mouthful, isn’t it?”
A clerk at Hatchard’s had recommended the book to Gabby, saying that it was a popular choice for children. She’d been surprised to find that her favorite tales had been adapted for the nursery—minus the wife-slaying and other scandalous parts, of course. Selected stories, including The Adventures of Sinbad the Sailor and Aladdin’s Wonderful Lamp had been rewritten to highlight particular moral lessons, in the manner of Aesop’s Fables.
“The stories are jolly good,” Max told him. “You always come to the nursery on Thursday nights to read one to Fiona and me. Maybe if you read the book now,” he added with growing excitement, “it might help you remember reading it before?”
Adam looked intrigued, flipping through the pages. “Capital suggestion, Max. I’ll try it.”
Max beamed.
“I have a suggestion too,” Fiona burst out.
Adam looked up from the book with a quizzical smile. “Yes?”
“I could play the pianoforte for you. You always like it when I play. You hired Maestro Bellucci from Italy to tutor me, and I’m one of the best pupils he’s ever had, he said so himself.” While immodest, Fi’s claim wasn’t inaccurate. Being her father’s daughter, she excelled at everything she did. “I’ve been practicing a sonatina by Maestro Clementi. Let’s go to the music room, and I’ll play it for you!”
“Papa’s hurt. He can’t walk,” Max pointed out.
“Who asked you?” Fiona narrowed her eyes at her brother. “Papa’s not an invalid. He’s already out of bed, and if he needs help, the footmen can carry him down the stairs.”
“That is a lovely idea, my dear,” Gabby said, trying to defuse the situation. “But Papa needs rest. Later, when he’s better—”
Regarding the Duke Page 11
