A Perfect Gentleman

by Candace Camp

  Abigail swallowed, tempted to remain in the carriage and return to the hotel. But, reminding herself that she had long ago left behind the timid girl she had once been, she handed the driver his money and climbed out of the cab.

  “Remember, wait for me. I’ll pay you extra when I return.”

  He looked at her as if he thought she was a lunatic, but nodded his head. “Aye. I’ll wait. For a bit, mind you.”

  “I won’t take long.”

  She curled her fingers tightly around the small leather-wrapped truncheon in her hand and started down the cobblestone street. Instinctively she drew closer to the protection of the buildings, though it was even darker there. Making her stride as long and confident as she could, she moved forward, hoping that she would not step in anything disgusting. It certainly smelled as if there might be refuse lying everywhere around here.

  When she reached the small lane, there was, thankfully, another lamppost, though the feeble light it cast barely penetrated the wisps of fog. Abigail suspected that the light served more to illuminate herself than to show her what lay ahead. A figure, darker than the night around it, moved in a doorway down the lane. She started toward it. Suddenly, the figure darted from the doorway and took to its heels.

  “No! Wait!” Abigail ran after the fleeing form, but she lost her footing on the slick, uneven cobblestones and fell to the ground. She scrambled up onto her hands and knees, her shoe catching in the hem of her cloak and impeding her. She peered up the street. The figure had disappeared. “Curse it!”

  Suddenly a hand lashed out from behind her and clamped around her arm.

  chapter 7

  Fear lanced through Abby, and as he hauled her to her feet, she twisted and struck out at her attacker. The short cudgel in her hand slammed into his side, and he let out a startled “oomph.” In the next instant she saw that her “attacker” was her husband.

  “Bloody hell!” Graeme grabbed her wrist, holding it up to examine the heavy leather-wrapped object in her hand. “What the devil did you hit me with?”

  Abigail drew in a shaky breath. “I believe it’s called a cosh.”

  “You carry this around with you?”

  “Not all the time. But I thought this might be the sort of place I should have a weapon.”

  “I should bloody well think so! What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

  Abigail lifted her chin. “I might ask you the same thing.”

  “That’s easy—I was following you.” He released her and stepped back.

  “Why? How did you know—”

  “I asked the doorman.”

  “The doorman! That traitor!” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m going to have a few words with him—telling everyone my plans.”

  “You mustn’t blame him. He assumed your husband had a right to know what idiocy you had up your sleeve.”

  “Well, he assumed wrong.” Abby whipped around and stalked away.

  “Just a minute.” Graeme caught up with her in two quick strides. “You’re not going anywhere until I get some answers.”

  “Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you intend to do? Hold me prisoner?”

  “Hopefully it won’t come to that,” he said through clenched teeth, taking her arm and steering her toward the carriage. “What are you doing? Why did you come here?”

  “It’s none of your business.” That wasn’t strictly correct, since the matter concerned the “truth” about her marriage, but Abby was not about to give in to his high-handed manner. Besides, this person, whoever it was, had approached her, not Graeme; perhaps there had been a reason for that. What if he knew something her spouse didn’t want her to learn? However trustworthy and upright Graeme might seem, she didn’t really know him. She had discovered that ten years ago.

  “Not my business? You’re my wife.”

  “Not so one would notice.”

  “Blast!” Abigail thought she might actually hear his teeth grinding together. “However little joy we may get out of it, legally we are married. I am responsible for you. You are Lady Montclair.”

  “Please.” She rolled her eyes. “Are you about to go on again about creating a scandal?”

  They had reached her hansom, and as the driver watched in interest, Graeme handed Abby up into the vehicle with a good deal more energy than was necessary, in her opinion. He climbed in behind her and swiveled to face her. She glared at him.

  “You almost had me fooled,” Graeme told her bitterly. “Between you and your champion Prescott, you had me believing you were an innocent whom I had misjudged and mistreated years ago. Until that note was shoved under your door.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out. It was obvious you were hiding it from me.”

  “Am I obliged to show you my correspondence? I must say, your view of a husband is more like a warden.”

  “Of course not! I don’t give a farthing who writes you or what they say. It was your secrecy! If it were perfectly innocent, why did you immediately stick it away in a drawer? Why did you rush into the hall and look around? Why did you say you didn’t know what it was when it was clear from the look on your face that you recognized it? You snatched it out of my hand—why would you be so alarmed that I might see it?”

  “You read a good deal into my putting away a letter.”

  “I told myself I was refining too much on a simple matter. So when I left, I sat down in the lobby to consider what had happened. The next thing I knew, you came flying down the stairs and over to the desk, where you showed the note to the clerk and talked to him at great length. Then you hustled out to speak to the doorman. After you left, I paid him a visit. He told me you were asking about someone bringing that envelope into the hotel. He also said that you showed him an address in a decidedly unlikely area for you to visit and ordered a cab for this evening.”

  “Congratulations. You found out a great deal. Perhaps you should join the police force.” She set her jaw mulishly.

  “You are involved in something, just as I suspected from the beginning. I have asked you time and again, but you have never given me your reason for returning to London. What are you planning?”

  “I don’t have any nefarious plans.”

  “Whom did you go there to meet?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He made an exasperated noise and turned from her, visibly pulling the remnants of his control around him. After a long moment, he said tersely, “What do you want?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What will it take to make you leave? What are you after? Do you want me to increase your living expenses? I’ve always given you a generous amount, I thought, but—”

  Abigail let out a humorless laugh. “Are you offering to pay me money? From the money my father gives you?”

  “I don’t receive money from him. I have managed your dowry well and brought the estate back into order. It now makes a profit. The remainder of the funds I have invested in—”

  “Please, I don’t need an accounting.” Abby sighed. Why had she ever thought this would work? “You are welcome to increase my allowance. I am sure the settlement home would appreciate it.”

  “The what? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a place where they help the women and children from the tenements. They offer food and aid and even housing. I give them the money you send me. Returning the payments to you got tiresome after a few months, so I started passing them on to a charity instead.”

  He stared at her blankly. “But how do you live? Did you go back to your father’s house? Do you think to shame me by living on his charity, as if I don’t support you?”

  “Of course not. I don’t have to live with one or the other of you. It isn’t scandalous to set up my own household; I’m a married woman. I have my own house; I have my own money. I am not beholden to any man.”

  “But that’s impossible. I don’t understand. The mo
ment we married, your money became mine under law.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Under British law. I don’t live in Britain. In New York a married woman can have property; we are, you see, somewhat more forward-thinking. Your arrangement with my father involved a chunk of his money. I receive income from a family trust on my mother’s side—Thurston is nouveau riche, but my mother’s ancestors have been stockpiling cash since the Mayflower. My father settled an endowed trust on me, as well, when I married. He didn’t trust you to support me in the proper style. That is no slight on you; my father doesn’t trust anyone. In any case, I have made investments on my own. Mr. Prescott has been kind enough to advise me on financial matters.”

  Graeme snorted. “I’m sure he has.”

  She glanced out the window and saw that they had arrived at the Langham. “So you see, I don’t need your money. I don’t want your title or your position or even your public embarrassment, for that matter.” Abigail reached out to turn the door handle.

  He caught her wrist. “What the devil do you want, then?”

  She looked at him. “A baby.”

  Had Abby been in a lighter mood, she might have laughed at the stunned expression on Graeme’s face. His hand fell away from hers. She climbed out of the carriage and strode toward the hotel door. Let him pay the hansom driver; it served him right for taking over her carriage—and her meeting.

  She didn’t bother to send the doorman a hard look. What did the man’s disloyalty to her matter when she doubted she would be here for long? Graeme had forced her hand. She had hoped to spend enough time with him to overcome his initial dislike, even perhaps to arouse some modicum of desire, so that he might agree to her offer.

  But it was clear he was determined to believe the worst of her, even about something as insignificant as this letter. Abigail had no chance of softening him to the idea. All she could do was throw out the bald truth and see if Graeme would be reasonable about the whole thing. She feared there was little chance of that. His enmity seemed unshakable.

  Inside her suite, she ripped off her cloak and gloves, tossing them onto a chair. Going to the sideboard, she poured herself a glass from the decanter of brandy and took a drink, grimacing at the heat that seared her throat.

  Her head ached. She pulled the pins from her hair, letting the heavy mass tumble down, and began to massage her scalp with her fingertips. She felt close to tears—she wasn’t sure whether from disappointment or anger—but she refused to cry. She had vowed years ago never to shed another tear over Graeme Parr. Not that it was about him. The loss looming before her was larger than that.

  She was jerked from her thoughts by a loud knock at the door. Hope rose in her chest, and she started forward. She made herself stop and draw a calming breath, before she opened the door.

  It came as no surprise to see Graeme standing in the doorway. Whatever he had been about to say died on his lips as his eyes went to her hair, falling over her shoulders. No doubt he found it reprehensible of her to answer the door in such dishabille. She lifted her chin and sent him a challenging gaze.

  He cleared his throat. “May I come in?”

  Abigail shrugged and walked away, leaving him to step inside and close the door. She swung back around to face him, crossing her arms.

  “You cannot simply drop that on a man and walk away,” he told her. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  She raised her brows. “Surely you don’t need me to explain how I would acquire a baby.”

  His mouth tightened. “Of course not. But why did you come to me about it?”

  Anger rushed through her. “You think I’m the sort of woman who would cuckold you instead?”

  “I didn’t think anything. I never considered the matter.”

  “Naturally. You wouldn’t have cared what I did.” Abigail could not keep the touch of bitterness from her voice.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. You’ve made it perfectly clear. I understand how you feel. I even understand why you feel that way. However, I cannot change the things that have happened. I have to make the best I can of my situation. This last year I came to realize that despite all my wealth, all the parties, the title, the multitude of things that others might envy me for, I do not have a life. You and my father, you see, got what you wanted from our marriage. My father has the connection to aristocracy that he craved. And you, even though it was at the expense of sacrificing your heart, received the money you needed to rescue your estate. What did I get? An empty marriage, an empty house. An empty life. I want more than an endless round of shopping and parties. I want a child.”

  “I—I see.” Graeme glanced around uncomfortably, then picked up the glass of brandy she had set down and slugged it back. “You want a real marriage.”

  “No. I can live without a husband. I no longer expect to have romantic love. I don’t need to be sheltered or supported or have companionship. But I do want the fulfillment of a child. I want to have someone to love and—well, there’s no need to explain my reasons. Suffice it to say that I intend to have a baby, and since I am married to you, you seemed the logical choice for a father.”

  He avoided her eyes as he poured himself another drink.

  “I could, of course, take a lover,” Abby went on. “But whatever you think of me, I am not the sort of woman who breaks her wedding vows. And it seems wrong to present you with an heir that is another man’s child. I presume that is something that would bother you, as well.”

  His gaze flew to her then, and he said in a strangled voice, “Yes, I mean no, I shouldn’t want that.” He cleared his throat. “But don’t you think that this is, ah, a trifle . . . cold-blooded?”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Abby gave him a bright smile. “I believe I’m getting the hang of being a noblewoman.”

  “Is this a jest to you?”

  “No. It is no jest. I want a child. Don’t you? You need an heir. That’s the way it is with the nobility, isn’t it?” Abby took a step toward him. “Come now, you always do what a gentleman should, make whatever sacrifice is necessary for the family. It would only be one more.”

  “It is hardly that simple.”

  Abby knew she was going about it wrong. She could not argue him into it; he was obviously far too stubborn for that. And this was too important to lose. Pulling on whatever acting skills she had, she summoned up an arch tone. “I understand that it may be . . . difficult for you to perform your, um, duty. Since you love another woman, I mean.”

  A dull flush reddened his cheeks. “I realize that you find me an object of ridicule.”

  “Nonsense. I find it admirable, rather, that you have stayed true to your love these many years. Not many men would have remained celibate all this time.” He shifted uncomfortably, and Abby pressed her point. “Most men would have found . . . other outlets, shall we say?”

  “This is hardly a fit topic of conversation.” His color deepened.

  She ignored his words. “A willing widow, say, or, perhaps a business arrangement. Yet you—”

  “You know bloody good and well I didn’t—” he burst out. “I mean, of course there were—I did sometimes avail myself of, um . . .” He faltered to a stop.

  “Prostitutes?” Abigail suggested brightly.

  “Yes!” he snapped.

  “So you have had other women despite your love for the woman you could not have.”

  “It’s been ten years!” he ground out. “What the devil would you expect me to do?”

  “I expected precisely that. I was merely pointing out that you have in the past—”

  “Blast it, that was different! I wasn’t—it was just business.”

  “Perhaps you could pay me, then, and that would make it all right.”

  He slammed the glass down on the table. “This conversation is absurd.”

  Energy and hope drained from her. “No doubt you’re right.” Tears burned behind her eyes, but Abby sternly suppressed them. “That’s th
e end of it, then.”

  “I’m sorry.” He sent her an abashed glance. “But you must see that it’s impossible.”

  “I do.” Abigail nodded. “I was indulging in a fantasy.” She wanted nothing more at the moment than to be alone, to sink down on the bed and weep with disappointment. But she refused to allow herself to be weak. She would not allow this man or anyone else to rule her life. “I shall return home and file for divorce.”

  “What!” Graeme stiffened. “No. You cannot.”

  “I must. It isn’t what I want. I believed my marriage was for life. But there is no other way.”

  “No. It’s impossible.” Graeme’s expression was implacable. “It would take an act of Parliament and I will not—”

  “I’ll remind you again: I don’t live in England.” Abigail faced him. She would not back down, not even before his anger. “It is still somewhat difficult to obtain a divorce in New York, but it’s an easy enough matter to move to Ohio and sue for divorce there. I am sure I would have ample grounds. Desertion, for one thing.”

  “I didn’t desert you. You were the one who left.”

  “Adultery, then. I can hire someone to follow you when you visit your prostitutes. Or perhaps it’s good enough cause that you have refused to perform your ‘marital duties.’ I’ll have my lawyer look it up.”

  “No, damn it!” He took two quick steps forward, his eyes blazing. “I will not allow you to subject my family to scandal. It would be a stain on the Parr name for generations.”

  “I don’t care!” Abigail cried, her arms rigid at her side. “I am not throwing away the rest of my life for the sake of your stupid infernal name!”

  “So that is it, then—if I don’t give in to you, you will drag my family’s name through the muck. You plan to coerce me into doing what you want. You are just like your father.”