by Gabriel
“You’re trying to make Lady Hartle look like the hypocrite she is,” Aaron said. “Will that work?”
“Lady Hartle wants what is called equitable relief, not damages, and those who come before the courts of equity are admonished to do so with ‘clean hands.’ Her dainty white hands are not legally any cleaner than my head groom’s, if she was the one to force the issue of marriage over protestations from the principles.”
“Marjorie didn’t protest,” Aaron said, studying the muddy toes of his boots. “She went like a lamb to slaughter, and I protested only behind closed doors, because one wouldn’t want to imply the lady was in any way lacking.”
“So how worried should we be?” Gabriel raised the question Aaron would not voice.
“About scandal, plenty worried, because the very drafting of a complaint starts the gossip rolling, and once it’s filed, you have no privacy whatsoever. About having to marry Lady Marjorie, not very worried.”
Delightful. This was why the Bard recommending killing all the lawyers. “Not very worried is not the same thing as not worried at all.”
“I’m a solicitor,” Kettering said. “Anybody who promises you they can deliver a given outcome in any legal case is lying or preparing to commit a crime. More tea?”
“Hang the damned tea.” Aaron got to his feet. “My thanks, Kettering. This has been enlightening, and depressing as hell. Maybe the cavalry wasn’t the worst place I could have ended up.”
“Right.” Kettering smiled genially. “You might have become a barrister and had to deal with the likes of me regularly, and not simply to pull you through a little scrape.”
“Gabriel, I’m off to fetch the horses, I’ll see you out back.”
He left a thoughtful silence in his wake.
“He’s hiding something,” Gabriel said, pitching Kettering’s pencil into the fire. “I don’t know what, but it’s eating at him.”
“What are you hiding?”
“I’m not sure.” Though he had a strong hunch. “Possibly that I’m trying to woo a female, and I don’t want Aaron getting wind of it yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think there’s a part of my brother that wants to see me married to his wife. Aaron and Marjorie aren’t quite cordial, though he’s never rude to her, never upbraids her in public, never shows her the slightest discourtesy.”
Kettering lifted the lid of the teapot—a delicate, flowery bit of antique Sevres that somehow suited him—then bellowed for a clerk to bring a fresh pot. “Maybe Aaron and Marjorie are reserved. They’ve had a couple of years to burn through their initial lust.”
“Even reserved couples have a private vocabulary of looks and glances, muttered asides, veiled references, that sort of thing. Aaron and Marjorie don’t seem to be a real couple in the married sense.”
Kettering opened his fussy French desk and withdrew another pencil. “Who is this woman you’re interested in?”
Gabriel smiled, because denying any lawyer any answer was that much fun. “She isn’t likely to have me, not at first, so I must wage a stealthy and determined campaign.”
“God help her. You can’t think to offer marriage while suit is pending?”
“I suppose not.” Trust a lawyer to leave a trail of blighted hopes. “What of that other matter, the question of who tried to have me killed, Kettering? Have you learned anything further?”
“I have the names of the men your brother met over pistols.” Kettering opened another drawer, rummaged briefly, and read three names.
“Those names are familiar. Fellow officers?”
“Every one of them served with Lord Aaron in Spain, and was there when you were injured.”
“This does not bode well.” Not that much that went on in a lawyer’s office ever would. “Any idea what they were attempting to murder each other over?” And where was that fresh pot of hot tea when a man faced yet more cold, rainy weather amid the reek and mud of London?
“That’s peculiar.” Kettering shoved the pencil behind his ear and settled his large frame onto the front of his desk, provoking a chorus of creaks from the delicate furniture. “Nobody was hurt in any of the three duels, not a scratch, not a close call, not a near miss, and in each case, the participants were crack shots, experienced with their weapons.”
“Common sense often prevails when people have had a chance to cool off.”
“But cool off about what?” Kettering hunched forward, leaning his weight on his hands. “There isn’t a single bet on the club books, not a rumor to be found, not a second willing to gossip.”
“You’re sure they met?”
“All three times, yes, and shots were fired, and seconds present, and so forth, but not one word about what the underlying challenge entailed.”
“Do you suppose my brother has a mistress?”
“He doesn’t,” Kettering said. “I see all the money, and none of it is going to any lightskirt.”
“Remind me never to cross you.”
“Well, cheer up.” Kettering smiled, a frighteningly chipper expression. “Just as soon as we figure out who wants you dead, what your brother is hiding, and how to keep you safe from Lady Hartle’s schemes, your troubles will be over.”
“You forgot the most important matter.” Gabriel paused with a hand on the door latch, because Kettering had taken the pencil from behind his ear, and Gabriel did not want to murder the best solicitor in the realm.
Kettering considered that pencil, then shot Gabriel a curious look. “The title? That shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Tell me you’re joking.”
“I didn’t say it would be cheap.” Kettering’s smile was nowhere in evidence. “Once we clear up these other matters, I’ll look into it in greater depth.”
“I couldn’t care less how long Aaron sports the title,” Gabriel said. “He’s growing into it nicely, though he’s still feuding with our steward too often.”
“So if it isn’t the title,” Kettering said, “what’s your greatest remaining challenge?”
“The lady. The greatest and most worthy challenge is the lady, and how to make her safely and permanently mine.”
Eight
“You were worried about Soldier,” Gabriel said, “while it’s your mount who seems to be tiring.”
Aaron’s horse half slipped, half shied itself nigh into the ditch.
“If certain horses didn’t spend the first three miles from Town dancing around and spooking at every passing bonnet, then certain horses wouldn’t be so damned tired when we’re still three miles from home.” Aaron’s testiness and fatigue showed in his tone of voice, which had the same horse tossing its head and switching its wet tail.
“We could borrow a mount from a neighbor,” Gabriel suggested. “You know you want to get off and walk the silly blighter. I’d walk with you. Soldier shouldn’t be abused simply because he has more sense.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course not.” Gabriel swung down, grateful not to have to admit his back was screaming at him to get out of the saddle. Their stay in London had been marked by cold, rain, and a house staff caught unused to having anybody to look after. He’d gone days without having a truly hot soak.
Or smelling freshly baked sweets.
“So what did we learn, Gabriel, on our sojourn up to Gomorrah?”
“We learned your horse is town-shy, much as I’ve become.”
“I noticed you stuck close to home.” Their boots squishing in the mud made a wet counterpoint to the hooves doing likewise directly behind them.
“As did you, baby Brother.”
“And you wrote to Miss Hunt.”
“While you couldn’t be bothered to send along a single word to your wife,” Gabriel noted airily. “She’s likely worried, Aaron.”
“And Kettering didn’t exactly scoff at the notion one should be worried,” Aaron rejoined. Gabriel let a silence take root, until, a quarter of a mile later, Aaron spoke again.
&nbs
p; “You’re right. I should have written to my wife. What did you have to say to Miss Hunt?”
“I passed along some greetings from a mutual friend.”
Gabriel could tell Aaron was itching to ask how a portrait artist and an earl-turned-land-steward could have a mutual friend, but it took another quarter mile.
“You know her from before?” Aaron asked, gaze on the dripping brown hedgerows on either side of the road.
“I do. We were not involved, if that’s what you’re thinking.” In love with a woman was not the same thing as involved with her.
“Involved.” Aaron pursed his lips, petted his tired horse’s neck, fiddled with the reins he was leading the animal by, and then glanced at his brother. “Is that how a land steward refers to swiving a decent young woman toward whom he has no marital aspirations?”
The silence this time lasted about eight steps of muddy boots. “Grown puritanical in my absence, Aaron?”
“Until such time as you resume the title, Miss Hunt is under my protection, isn’t she? And she’s the first thing like a real friend I’ve seen in Marjorie’s life. You weren’t a choirboy before you went to Spain, Gabriel, but you played by the usual rules.”
“I learned to, and your unwillingness to mention the cost of my education is appreciated. Miss Hunt and I were not involved, make of that what you will, and were I to offer for her—again—she would not have me.” Yet.
Not silence, but rather Aaron’s eyebrows risen in surprise. “You offered for her? When you were merely a land steward?”
“Merely a land steward,” Gabriel said. “She didn’t hold that against me, any more than she’d be impressed with my title. Miss Hunt has seen most of the capitals and courts of Europe, as well as many works of the great masters in the original.”
“She’s different,” Aaron concluded. “Sophisticated in some regards, unassuming in others. Also very competent in the kitchen.”
And the bedroom, and the library. “Well put, and she’s stubborn. I tried to tell her it wasn’t safe to be at Hesketh until we’d figured out who tried to kill me, and she pretty much read me the Riot Act.”
“Did she raise her voice?”
“Not in the least.” Gabriel sloshed along. “She politely gave me leave to consider that if I were so concerned about the safety of my loved ones, perhaps I ought to be taking myself off to distant parts, rather than ordering others from my presence.”
“But you did that,” Aaron said. “For two years you were on the South Downs, herding sheep or bullocks or something.”
Gabriel endured a wave of cold, muddy homesickness—for the sheep, the bullocks, and that padded chair in Polly’s kitchen. “We raised a little of everything, because it was an old-fashioned estate and intended to be self-supporting.”
“And was it?”
It had certainly supported Gabriel. “When I left, it was on its way to thriving, though by then it had acquired a competent owner who was both knowledgeable and committed to the land.”
“You’re right; it takes both.” Aaron’s horse took a slippery step but righted itself easily enough. “I was committed but knew exactly bugger all about the land.”
“You’ve managed well, better than I would have.”
“George plays games with me,” Aaron said. “He wants me to fall on my own sword, as if I’m a little boy and can learn only by his silent, disapproving example.”
“George is more tired of his job than he knows. He’s been doing it so long he no longer brings fresh ideas to it.”
“But one can’t approach it thus,” Aaron rejoined. And for the next two miles, Gabriel was treated to a surprisingly impassioned diatribe on stewardship of the land and modern agriculture and the necessity of innovation if one was to go on profitably.
All from a man who professed to know little about the subject.
They were halfway up the drive, the elegant and imposing facade of the manor before them, when Soldier’s back foot slipped in the mud. The horse threw up his head in a bid for balance, and Gabriel’s arm was jerked out and up, because his fingers were nigh frozen around the reins. Aaron plodded a few steps farther before pausing and eyeing Soldier, who had come to a rock-steady halt. “The old boy isn’t turning up balky now, is he?”
“No.” Not the four-legged old boy.
“Well, are we to stand out here until the heavens open up again? I’m for a hot bath, myself, and some of that baking one can hope Miss Hunt has gotten up to, and perhaps even a… Gabriel?”
“Bloody, benighted fuck.”
“Your back?”
Gabriel managed a nod. A careful nod. Aaron blew out a breath, tied up the reins on the horses, then sent both beasts trotting the last distance toward their long-awaited stables.
“Can you get an arm around my shoulders?”
“The left one,” Gabriel said, because even long words would hurt unnecessarily. It took slow, cautious movement on both their parts, but Aaron soon had Gabriel hobbling toward the house.
“Marjorie is going to blame me for this,” Aaron muttered. “And she’ll be half-right. Could we stop at an inn and warm up? Why no, of course not, because Gabriel Wendover was on campaign, anxious to tell my dear wife we’ve learned exactly nothing, for all we’ve spent a delightful week in the stinking, filthy hog wallow of Town. But will he listen to me when I suggest we might wait for more salubrious weather to make this journey?”
“Aaron.” Gabriel’s voice was little more than a whisper. “It’s all right. I won’t fall into a swoon, and I won’t die from this.”
“You might,” Aaron said darkly. “When I get done scolding you for your pigheadedness, and Marjorie gets done scolding me for your pigheadedness.”
Gabriel’s lips quirked, despite the pain and the mud and the cold and the fact that he’d scared his little brother badly. “We’re in for it now. It’s fortunate that my back will come to rights with some heat and rest.”
“You’re sure?”
“It always has before.”
“Marjorie will still kill me.”
***
“Any grouchy old cripples hereabouts?” Aaron asked as he waltzed into Gabriel’s room, a tray balanced on his hip.
Polly snatched a pillow from Gabriel’s hand. “Don’t throw that. Aaron’s carrying hot soup and hot tea on that tray, of which you will partake, sir.”
Aaron appeared vastly entertained by Polly’s high-handedness. Well, so was Gabriel, or he would be, if the murderous pain in his back weren’t making humor impossible.
“You will leave us, Miss Hunt,” Gabriel said. “My thanks for your kind wishes, but my brother can be trusted to make sure I eat my pudding.”
Polly shot a dismissive look at Aaron. “He cannot. He’s your brother, and siblings are ever willing to conspire with each other.”
“I can,” Aaron said, “because it’s delicious, and the only stops we made coming down from Town were to rest the horses, so yonder old man will be nigh starving.”
Gabriel barely got out a muttered, “Now you’ve done it,” before Polly was off, ranting about two idiot men and it must be bred into them and this was why sensible people went traveling in the summer and why did she ever think…
“Bother the both of you.” She marched toward the door. “I am going to have a soothing cup of chocolate with Lady Marjorie, and we are going to lament the Creator’s missteps with his practice model.”
“The male of the species,” Gabriel supplied in her absence. “The Creator, in Miss Hunt’s opinion, is subject to all the trials of any other artist, requiring practice models and initial sketches and so forth. The donkey is the initial sketch of the horse, in her theology.”
“Interesting.” Aaron pulled a hassock over closer to the fire and put the tray on it. “Interesting that you’ve debated theology with the portrait artist.”
“One doesn’t debate with Polonaise Hunt; one listens attentively and takes notes. Is that chicken stew?”
“Marjorie said
Miss Hunt was in a cooking mood today because it was too dreary to paint. It smells delicious.” They consumed every single thing on the tray in the concentrated, appreciative silence of tired, hungry men, and the tub was full and steaming by the fireside by the time they were finished.
Aaron rose and frowned down at his brother. “I’m not going to ask how you managed this sort of problem when you were a mere land steward.”
“Carefully.” Gabriel scooted to the edge of his seat, pushed gingerly to his feet, then made himself stand, mentally beating back the pain—and the memory of Mr. Danner, effecting the same maneuver far more smoothly.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Uncomfortable.”
Aaron walked him over to the tub. “Why in the hell can’t you take a tot of the poppy?”
“And have whoever wishes me ill know I’m completely incapacitated?”
Gabriel fell silent for long, teeth-gritting moments while they got him into the tub. “I’ll be in this tub until spring,” he declared. “Is there any more of that tea?”
“Of course.” Aaron shifted to fix his brother a cup, then dragged the dressing stool over to the tub. “Can you manage in there, or do you need assistance?”
“I need to soak.” Gabriel leaned back and closed his eyes. “It’s good and hot, a little bit of heaven.”
When the water began to cool, Aaron saw to the washing of his hair and did the honors with the rinse water. Getting Gabriel out of the tub was easier than getting him into it.
“You’re not to get into the bed until I use the sheet warmer,” Aaron cautioned.
“Don’t forget to warm the pillows as well, else General Hunt will have a court-martial.”
“She’s worried for you. It’s sweet.”
Also improper as hell for Polonaise to be in his bedroom at any hour, much as it pleased him that she’d fuss over him. “You like seeing me scolded like a puppy who’s made a puddle in the front hallway.”
