by Jenna Jaxon
Inwardly, Hal groaned. They must persuade the duke to acknowledge her, or his own father would never allow them to marry. Would it be better to tell her his identity now, or wait until the duke recognized her as his child? If his grace refused, they could not wed, and his ruse would not matter. If he agreed, the revelation of Hal’s subterfuge might make her hate him so much she would never accept him. What a devilish muddle.
“Horace?” Her wide-eyed alarm brought him back to the present.
He opened his mouth to tell her the truth. “I…uh, of course, Gabriella,” he said, automatically rubbing her hand. God, but he was a coward. He simply couldn’t bear to tell her. Not yet. Not until he knew what Rother would do. So how could they convince him? A wild hope sprang up that somehow there had been a secret wedding, or that somewhere there were letters between the duke and her mother in which the duke admitted that Gabriella must be his daughter. “Did your mother have any proof of this story? Papers of some sort?”
She frowned and pulled her hand from his. “Papers? What papers? You think my mother would have stolen the duke’s papers?”
Hal groaned and scrubbed his hand down his face. “No, Gabriella, darling, I didn’t mean that. I just wondered if it was written somewhere that your mother had this affair with Rother. Did he ever write to her, either as the marquess or later, when he became the duke?”
Gabriella rose from the bench like an avenging angel, lacking only a fiery sword to smite him. “You think my mother has lied to me all these years? How dare you suggest such a thing? She is an honorable woman, who has loved me since before I was born. She would never lie to me!”
“No, of course not, Gabriella.” He scrambled up, searching the dark garden to be sure no one had come to investigate her cry. “I didn’t mean—”
“I am Mademoiselle d’Aventure to you, monsieur. Or better yet, do not address me at all if you think so ill of my mother and of me.” She straightened and drew her hand back.
The crack of skin on skin sounded appallingly loud in the quiet night air. He rubbed at the sting on his cheek then moved his jaw to assure himself it still worked.
“Brûle en enfer!” With that incomprehensible phrase, she whirled around, skirts flying, and marched into the house.
“Damn.” Hal dropped back onto the bench, massaging his still smarting face.
His hopes for a straightforward courtship with Gabriella lay dashed on the cold ground. If Rother turned out to be her father, and if he agreed to acknowledge her, Hal might be a step closer to making her his marchioness. Once acknowledged, she might be considered an eligible parti even by his conservative parent.
If she turned out not to be the duke’s by-blow—despite the plausible tale, it could very well be a tempest in a teapot—or if the duke was not moved to admit his past indiscretion in light of his current search for a wife, Hal was in an even worse position regarding his father’s decree. Asking to marry the illegitimate granddaughter of a French wine merchant might make a ballet dancer seem respectable in his father’s estimation.
Of course, if Gabriella wouldn’t forgive him his doubts, there would be no problem to solve other than where to store the pieces of his broken heart. An unacceptable outcome he would do his best to avoid. He wanted to make a life with her, and despite her recent actions, he believed she wanted the same. They must find a way past this tangle.
Slowly, he rose, determined to commence work on the reconciliation. He would continue plans for her introduction to the duke with Celinda, and what better time than the present? After rescuing his jacket from under the bush, and giving it a brief brushing to dislodge the damp leaves that clung to the fine material, he shrugged it on, at once thankful for its warmth. Playing the part of a valet had grave disadvantages. Looking once more like a guest rather than a servant, he strode around to the front of the house.
The brightness of the foyer blinded him after the dark night, and he blinked as he peered around the elegant townhouse. Strains of a lively Scottish air, sung by a sweet soprano voice, wafted through the house. He enjoyed a good musical performance, but he had business to attend to tonight.
A footman approached him. “May I show you to the music room, my lord?”
Hal shook his head and searched his pockets. “Ask Lady Celinda Graham to meet me in the library, please,” he said, handing over a small white calling card.
“Very good, my lord.” The man disappeared with cat-like stealth.
Hal made for Lord Atherton’s library, keeping an eye peeled for Gabriella, although he doubted she’d be allowed upstairs. Still, he wouldn’t put it past the strongminded woman to take her fate into her own hands once again. He found the library and sank gratefully into a most comfortable deep-buttoned leather chair. A quick look around revealed massive bookcases, but no convenient decanter or glasses. Lord Atherton must rarely visit this room.
“Why have you summoned me?”
He jumped up at the sound of Celinda’s displeased voice.
She stood just inside the doorway, attired in a delightful green silk frock that complemented her creamy skin to perfection. The sour look on her face, however, would threaten to curdle milk. “Do you know where I was? What I was doing?”
“In the music room? Listening to an exquisite rendition of ‘Loch Lomond,’ if my ears can be believed.” He grinned at her, hoping to dispel this mood, and indicated the seat across from his.
Her eyes narrowed, and he tried to gauge the distance between him and the safe haven behind the brown, high-backed chair.
“I’ll have you know I was sitting next to Lord Finley, eternally grateful he’d chosen to sit beside me rather than any of the other ladies present tonight, including my cousin Kate. She ended up sitting with Lord Haversham, so I know she’s ready to chew nails.” She moved toward him, and he did slide behind the chair.
Better safe than sorry.
“I believe Lord Finley was about to ask me to accompany him into the refreshment room at intermission, when your card arrived. Are you trying to ruin my life?”
“No, of course not. But you did promise to help me, and this seemed the best opportunity.”
“Wretch. You couldn’t simply call on me at home, like normal people do?” She hit his arm with her furled fan. “Who knows who’s on Lord Finley’s arm this very moment, staring up into his blue eyes and making him feel like he’s the most wonderful man in the world?”
“Is that what you would have done?” He cocked his head at her. Ladies were infernally hard to understand, so anything he could glean from Celinda about the workings of their minds would be a boon.
“That’s what any woman would do to try to secure a man’s affections.” She flounced over to the chair he had offered and sank down onto it, her brows lowered, her mouth pouting. “So what is it you wanted to speak to me about that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
“Something quite important.” Hal stepped swiftly to the door and closed it almost three-quarters of the way. “That should preserve your honor and afford us a bit of privacy as well.”
“You think my courtship with Lord Finley is not important?” She glared at him. “Good evening, Lord Halford.” She gathered her shawl and pulled it over her shoulders, preparing to rise from the chair.
“I think it is just as important, but not quite as pressing at the moment as my dilemma.” He returned and put a hand out to stay her. “Why do you and every other person living call me by my title when they are annoyed with me? Can you not muster anger while calling me Hal?”
“I suppose formality is its own form of censure.” Celinda relaxed into the chair and sighed. “So why have you called me here?”
“I have some rather startling news about Madmoiselle d’Adventure.”
Celinda inclined her head toward him, a sudden gleam of interest in her eyes. “This had better astound me, Hal.”
“Oh, I believe it will.” As he related Gabriella’s tale, Celinda alternately leaned forward and reared back, gasped and clutch
ed his arm.
“I told you she had another reason for wanting to meet His Grace,” she said, gathering her shawl around her once more when he had finished. “‘Childhood dream’ indeed.” She tapped her fan against her palm. “Do you think it’s true?”
“It’s certainly possible. The part about him being impatient and donning a disguise smacks very much of Rother, although I confess I’ve never heard anything like this tale from him. Then again, we do not belong to the same clubs.” Hal sighed. “Do you know of anyone who might be able to verify it? Would he have told no one?”
“I will say the timing seems correct.” Celinda settled herself, a pensive frown on her face. “According to my mother, the duke, then Marquess of Poole, spent the years from 1798 through 1800 on his Grand Tour.” She shook her head. “My mother said his wildness made a March hare seem tame when he was a young man.”
“How does your mother know all this?” He’d no idea Lady Ivor would be such a fount of knowledge.
“She keeps a journal with information on all the eligible gentlemen on her special ‘marriage list’ for me and my sisters.”
“And Rother is on that list? But he’s your godfather.” Were such things done? It sounded scandalous.
She raised one gracefully arched eyebrow. “He’s less blood relation than you and I, and you proposed to me.”
“That was a spur of the moment decision. Do you know if I am on that list?”
Celinda merely laughed and continued. “Where was I? Oh, yes, he married Lady Jane Fallow, daughter of the Marquess of Buckland, in the spring of 1801. They’d had no children when she died of smallpox in 1810. He remarried two years later and now has two sons, however, his second wife died shortly after the second son was born, so he’s searching for another wife this Season.” She paused, tapping her fan once more. “I wonder if Mamma has heard a rumor about an affair with a French girl. I shall have to use my best wheedling in the next day or so.”
“I have every confidence in your talents, my dear.” If her mother knew anything, Celinda would find it out.
“So now, how can I help you and Miss d’Aventure, Hal?” She smiled at him for the first time that night. “We must set a date and time so I can contact His Grace.”
“You will need to arrange the meeting with him for Thursday between one-thirty and two o’clock. Gabriella…Miss d’Aventure says that is when she will likely not be missed by Lady Chalgrove, who will be accepting callers with Lady Hamilton.” If only that were the sole part Celinda needed to play. “You will also need to enlist your mother and some of your friends to create a subterfuge to mask the meeting.”
Her eyebrows swooped up alarmingly. “I am to do double duty for you, is that it? Then it is only fair that you assist me in my pursuit of Lord Finley. Quid pro quo, cousin.” Celinda straightened her shoulders and looked at him innocently, all big blue eyes and cherubic smile.
“Done.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “I shall do everything within my power to help you in the leg-shackling of the Viscount Finley.” He drew a cross over his chest. “So help me, God.”
“Very well. So, what role will you play in all this?”
“Unfortunately, none whatsoever.” Hal groaned when her frown returned. “It cannot be helped, my dear. Miss d’Aventure still believes me to be my valet. I can hardly then be present at the meeting. Rother knows me.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” Celinda stared at him, her narrowed eyes indicating her displeasure.
“I will hire a carriage to pick her up as soon as her lady goes down to meet her callers. She will arrive at your house shortly thereafter, in need of correct clothing. She should look her very best, don’t you think?” He hadn’t thought about that hurdle until this minute. “Can that be accommodated?”
“Of course. I have four sisters, all in residence this year. She will likely fit someone’s gowns.”
“Thank God.”
She patted his hand. “You are sorely out of your element, aren’t you, Hal? Don’t worry. Once you have a wife, she will take care of everything for you.”
“Can you promise me that?”
Celinda laughed and shook her head. “Oh, no. But the odds are in your favor. Now, tell me about this subterfuge. What do you have in mind?”
Chapter 7
Hal stood once more in front of the dreadful Chinoiserie desk in his father’s study, dressed in a manner that would have done Brummell proud. Hands clasped behind his back, he stood stiffly, his plea to his father chasing round and round his head. Hopefully, his appearance and sober mien would impress upon the duke how serious he took his request.
“So have you found this young woman’s family at last, Halford?” His father held several sheets of paper, staring at one through his monocle then abruptly tossing it onto the table and perusing the next. “You seem quite engaged in finding her antecedents. Didn’t I just see you four days ago? Never known you to be so bullish about a woman.”
“I love her, Father. I want to marry her.” Hal put every ounce of determination into his voice. No doubt, no wavering, only strength and determination. His father would respect that.
“That may be. However, if she’s not of good family, you won’t be marrying her in my lifetime.” He dropped the monocle to stare at Hal with glassy blue eyes. “And I mean to remain above ground for a very, very long time to come.”
“Fortunately, her parentage is not an issue. As it turns out, she’s the daughter of a duke.”
The look of surprise on the duke’s face would have been comical, had Hal’s guts not been gripped by an iron fist.
“Is she indeed? A French duke, I take it.” The old man nodded, though his countenance didn’t soften. “They’re scarce as hen’s teeth since the revolution.”
“An English duke, Your Grace.” Hal stared straight at his father. If he showed weakness now, he and Gabriella would be lost.
“Ah, an English duke. Even better.” His father continued to peruse the documents in his hands in a maddeningly slow fashion.
Drops of sweat trickled down the back of Hal’s neck, but he held his pose. Let his father make the opening move.
“You are aware that I am conversant with the progeny of every Duke in the Peerages of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Great Britain?” At last, his father raised his gaze to Hal’s. “As I turn over the names of marriageable young women of the correct age whose fathers are, in fact, dukes, I find the list extremely short. Two females only come to mind. Lady Margaret Seaton, the Duke of Starkland’s daughter, who is actually six months older than you, and Lady Anne Kerwick, the Duke of Polden’s daughter.”
Hal knew both ladies, although he’d not seen Lady Margaret for some years as she had ceased to show herself during the Season. She was more taken with gardening in Cumberland. Lady Anne he’d seen last at Lady Hairston’s ball a week ago, in the arms of the Marquess of Canterbury. He’d wager his father knew these facts as well. “Neither of these ladies has caught my eye, Father. I’m certain you know that.”
“I do. Indeed, I do, Halford. When last we spoke, you astounded me with the statement that your future bride to be was French. The only way either of those ladies have French blood is if it came over with William the Conqueror.” The duke’s voice rose, rattling the glasses beside the crystal decanter. “What the devil are you playing at?”
“Believe me, Your Grace, I do not play. My future bride is Gabriella d’Aventure—daughter of the Duke of Rother.” He stared at his parent evenly, awaiting the firestorm.
“Halford, I have given you too much leniency in your short life. You will cease these games and give me a straightforward answer.” The vein in the duke’s forehead popped up like a thin, purple snake.
“I am sorry to make this hard for you, Father, but I have given you the truth. I have good reason to believe that Miss d’Aventure is indeed the daughter of the Duke of Rother and his paramour Veronique Dubois. Mademoiselle Dubois subsequently married a wine merchant and Miss d’Aventure
was raised as his daughter in France. Rother knows nothing of this—yet.”
The Duke of Brixham sat back in his chair, twirling the monocle by its chain. “Why do you believe this girl’s story? Does she have proof? Does she resemble Rother?”
“Not a bit. She must take after her mother. And she has no proof, per se, but her information about where and when the affair took place is consistent with Rother’s movements that year. Have you heard him speak of a carriage accident during his Grand Tour? Or that he spent time in the Aquitaine during the summer of 1800?”
The duke shook his head. “Rother’s much younger than I. We’ve met socially and in Parliament, of course, but rarely otherwise.” The duke’s stare rested on him so long that he shifted in his highly polished boots and looked away. At last, his father leaned forward. “You didn’t say why you were inclined to believe her.”
“I did, Father. The facts, such as they are, seem to confirm her mother’s tale. The date of Gabriella’s birth matches, Rother’s supposed actions certainly match his character. And Miss d’Aventure tells the story convincingly. I don’t just want to believe her. I do believe her.”
“Because you want to marry her.” The duke chuckled, a grating sound. “I have never seen you so determined about anything, Halford. If I give credit to the girl for nothing else, I will give her that. She’s managed to make you take something seriously for the first time in your life, and that is quite an accomplishment.”
“Does that mean—” Hope fluttered in his heart.
“It does not.” The duke sat back in his chair, arms crossed.
Hal slumped. He should have known better than to believe for one instant that this wily fox would agree to the marriage simply based on Gabriella’s influence on his actions.
“You say Rother has no idea of this young woman’s claim. When will he know?”
