She didn’t. Instead, she absconded with a brace of candles and left him alone in his misery.
CHAPTER FIVE
“You are heavy-footed this morning, cousin,” Pamela remarked from her perch on the vanity stool, while her maid brushed her pale hair.
Calliope suppressed a yawn as she moved about the room, surreptitiously searching for the letter under the guise of positioning trinkets for her cousin’s admiration. Drowsy, she couldn’t stop shuffling her feet. Her slippers felt weighted, as if the ground beneath Fallow Hall were trying to root her in place.
“A long journey can make one overly tired, I suppose.” There was no need to mention her predawn jaunt through the manor or her encounter with Everhart. Nonetheless, she hadn’t slept a wink after she’d returned to her chamber. Why that man set out to provoke her, when he was always so agreeable to everyone else, was beyond her understanding.
More than that, she hated that it bothered her.
“Ah, yes. As does a long illness.” Pamela gestured for Bess to stop brushing and then lifted a bent wrist, as if in a silent command for assistance in making her way back to bed. “I tire so easily.”
Poor Nell, already tucked away in the corner, strummed the harp strings. Noting the tiny strips of linen tied around the girl’s fingertips, Calliope felt even sorrier for her. “Then perhaps we could let the servants adjourn for a few minutes while we have a visit“—though what she really intended was a more serious interrogation about the letter—“before you are too tired and before I must leave. As we speak, Griffin is ensuring our carriage is in order.”
“Even when mother was here, I had a difficult time enduring long conversations. They are so taxing.” Her cousin sighed and sank down onto the mattress. Bess fluffed the pillows behind her. “Nevertheless, I believe a lengthy visit is required. Since you are still unmarried, it can be of no consequence to remain as my companion here.”
Calliope clenched her teeth.
A dark cauldron of emotions roiled within her—hot prickles of irritation, a simmering tension at the pit of her stomach, and the sour taste of jealousy at the back of her throat.
If the letter was truly from him, then this Casanova was playing with her cousin’s affections. The same way he had with hers, when he’d so easily dismissed his ardor for her and gone on to someone else. Several someone elses. The fact that Brightwell had moved on hadn’t bothered her quite so much before . . .
Until now, when it appeared that both men wanted her cousin. And no one wanted Calliope. Which was a silly thought—one that made her annoyed with herself—considering how she was the one who’d refused Brightwell in the first place.
Casting those thoughts aside, she focused on her task. All she needed to do was find the letter and read it for any clues to the anonymous author’s identity. In addition to his distinctive handwriting, the other letters had been postmarked from London with a WMO for the Westminster office. Of course, confirming the postmark and date might not identify him, but it would be another step to narrowing down the candidates to one area.
“Alas, I am out of time,” Calliope said, hoping that her cousin might feel a sense of urgency as well.
Pamela pouted. “You cannot leave. I haven’t discussed the letter with you. I believe I mentioned how I am the only married woman to have received one.”
This Casanova’s heart was fickle indeed. Part of Calliope hoped this letter was merely a product of her cousin’s desire to be the center of attention. “But how are you even certain it was one of those?”
“It started off with My dearest Pamela . . . the same as all the others.” Her brow furrowed in confusion and her gaze glazed over. “Although their names weren’t Pamela. So I suppose it wasn’t exactly the same.”
It was common enough to begin any letter with such a salutation. Yet none of the other letters had started with My love, as Calliope’s had. My dearest Marianne had been the second. My dearest Petunia, the third. My dearest Beatrice, the fourth. My dearest Johanna, the fifth. My dearest Gertrude, the sixth. My dearest Honoria, the seventh. And now, potentially, My dearest Pamela. Most of the recipients had since married.
Had one of them found Casanova and married him posthaste?
“Was it signed?” If the signature were missing or torn away, that would be another clue.
“Of course not, silly. He never signs them.” Pamela laughed and then pursed her lips in a very queen-like manner. “But I don’t suppose you’d recall something like that since you’ve never received one yourself.”
Not signed. Was it true? Had Pamela received a Casanova letter?
The only person Calliope had shared her letter with was Griffin. She’d wanted her brother’s help in finding the author who’d stolen her heart with his words. Griffin, however, had advised her to have caution. “Only a coward would omit a signature,” he’d said, while reminding her that she’d already secured Brightwell’s affections.
“I suppose not,” Calliope murmured. Anxious, her gaze darted around the room once more, as if the letter would suddenly appear in plain sight, even after repeated searches had produced nothing. She didn’t like not knowing where it was, or if it was even here. The love-letter Casanova had already taken her unawares once. She didn’t want it to happen again. “Although, there is one way for me to have a full understanding . . . and that is by reading the letter myself.”
“But Mother had it removed,” Pamela whined. “I believe she feared I was falling madly in love with him.”
Calliope forced a laugh. “Ridiculous. You are newly married and madly in love with your own husband.”
Pamela’s gaze drifted off. “I should still very much like to see the letter again. Mother packed it inside an ivory-handled patch box, along with a bit of needlework, a few ribbons, earbobs, and a silk fan. She wanted me to concentrate completely on my recovery.”
“An ivory-handled patch box,” Calliope remarked, thinking about the carriage outside and the day’s journey ahead to Scotland. She had a choice to make. A difficult one.
“Yes, trimmed in gold and with a mirror on the inside. It was a wedding gift from Milton.” Pamela didn’t even bat an eye. Apparently, she was blind to the hypocrisy of having a letter from her ink-and-paper lover tucked away inside a wedding gift from her husband. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to find.”
Look for me, dear siren . . . Calliope had done that to the best of her ability. Still, her efforts hadn’t been enough. Now, she was presented with another opportunity to find him. Another opportunity to unmask this scoundrel and expose his identity.
The only question that remained—was she was willing to sacrifice more of her life for this pursuit?
Anxious for his guests’ departure, Gabriel grabbed his cane and headed toward the foyer. It was still early, but he hoped their carriage was packed and ready.
He’d slept fitfully, waking from a nightmare in which Calliope Croft stood before him, dressed in her night rail, and handed him a small, green seedling. The moment he took the gift, the plant sprouted to life. It transformed into vines that grew as thick as saplings and twisted viciously around his arms, his legs, and his throat, shackling him to the edifice of Briar Heath, his childhood home.
Even now, Gabriel shuddered. He did not want to return there. Ever. He did not want to think about what life had once been like, or the fear that had dogged his heels since the moment he’d met Calliope Croft.
More than anything, he needed to win this wager. Or in the very least, not lose.
At the sight of Griffin and Delaney Croft conversing with Danvers and Brightwell near the door, relief washed through him. Fortunately, the only people who stood in his way would soon be gone, and he needn’t worry about the letter he’d written all those years ago. Everything would return to normal soon.
“It disheartens me to see you go, Croft,” Gabriel said as he approached, relying on his cane to minimize the weight to his broken bone. “I was interested in proving that I can best you while st
anding on one leg.”
Croft grinned. “I almost feel guilty for pummeling you when all your limbs are in order. But the truth of the matter is, you couldn’t best me if you had a dozen legs to stand on, Everhart.”
This familiar sparring assured Gabriel that all was right with his world once again. “I look forward to proving you wrong when we are next in town.” He transferred his cane to the other side so he could grip Croft’s hand. Strangely enough, over these past few years of boxing with him, he’d actually started to like the chap, despite the threat he’d issued. Croft lived by a code of honor where he put his family first and stayed true to his character. Gabriel respected that, even now, when Croft wasn’t holding back from a good, solid handshake. “You’re going soft already. I guess it’s true what they say about married men.”
“That only the best of men are designed for it? Yes, that’s entirely true.” Croft chuckled and gave one final bone-crunching squeeze before he released his grip.
“Hear, hear,” Brightwell cheered with a resounding clap that caused one of his pale forelocks to droop. Years ago, their friendship had merely been a convenience for Gabriel. He’d wanted an excuse to spend more time with Calliope. Then, after the letter and her refusal of Brightwell, he’d experienced guilt over having misled them both. To make amends, he’d decided to become Brightwell’s friend in truth and suggested an expedition that would, essentially, help both of them heal their wounds.
Gabriel hoped the plan would finally work for him on his next expedition.
“All right, gentlemen,” Delaney Croft said with a laugh of her own. “You’ve proven yourselves worthy opponents. However, if we do not leave soon, I fear Valentine will fetch some rope and turn the foyer into a boxing ring.”
“Capital notion.” Danvers hailed Valentine who waited near the door. “Some rope, if you please. I should like to see Everhart pummeled.”
“You forget, my friend,” Gabriel said, “that you will not collect on our wager if I die.”
“Never mind, Valentine,” Danvers said with a tsk. The butler, however, never once moved from his spot, having become an expert at ignoring their nonsense in the short time they’d resided at Fallow Hall.
“My husband told me about the wager,” Delaney said. “I cannot believe you bet against Montwood.”
Gabriel shrugged, daring not to reveal how the statement made him want to look over his shoulder with dread. Knowing what he stood to lose, he never should have been so foolish. “Where is the cheat, by the way?”
“I imagine he’s a safe distance from the reach of Croft’s fists.” Brightwell smirked, apparently amused at being excluded from those who were targets, either of Croft’s fists or Montwood’s wager. Not to mention, since Brightwell had come to stay here with his wife for her recuperation, he’d done nothing but try to convince Gabriel to find himself a bride. Of course, the accident had much to do with that.
The uncomfortable weight of culpability settled in his stomach.
Delaney sighed in exasperation. “Montwood needn’t worry about that any longer. My husband has quite a forgiving nature.”
Forgiving nature? Gabriel bit back a laugh.
Croft issued a low grunt. His stern countenance suggested that he did not seem to share his wife’s certainty on the matter. Then, when his gaze shifted to Gabriel’s, the warning was clear. Sparring partner or not, Croft had not forgiven him for wounding Calliope.
Gabriel couldn’t blame him. He hadn’t forgiven himself either. As far as he was concerned, the sooner the Crofts left Fallow Hall, the better. “And speaking of those absent from our farewell party,” he added with an unnecessary glance around the room, “your sister appears to be missing.”
“Here I am,” said the woman in question from the top of the stairs. Hand atop the wide rail, Calliope raced down quickly but lost her muff along the way. Then, retracing her steps, she snatched it before turning back around and finally descending to the foyer.
Out of breath, she stood there in a blue redingote trimmed in white fur, her honeyed tresses already slipping free of their confines to brush against her collar. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright, her lips parted and inviting . . . just as they’d been last night for a single moment. Until he’d come to his senses and realized how dangerous it was to be alone with her.
He’d forgotten how easy it was to forget himself around her. Even now, he found himself taking a half step nearer. It was only a half step because he realized what he was doing just in time. Thankfully, he would not have to be on his guard for too much longer.
He tore his gaze away but not before spotting a smirk from Danvers. Gabriel glared back with a “bugger off” look. His friend snickered.
“And how does our cousin fare?” Croft asked. “I did not have the time to see her before her maid informed me that she was resting.”
Calliope tensed. It was nothing more than a subtle shift in her posture, a slight adjustment of her shoulders, but Gabriel noticed. “She is resting but doubtless hoping that I will still be here when she wakes. Pamela has requested that I stay behind to keep her company.”
Brightwell cleared his throat. “She mentioned the same to me earlier.”
Until now, Brightwell had said few words and lingered more along the outer rim of the foyer. Now, he took a step forward and drew everyone’s attention. Of course, Gabriel paid more attention to how Calliope reacted.
How often, years ago, had he watched her gaze alight on Brightwell? Dozens of times, at least. Back then, Gabriel had always felt a rise of annoyance. Strangely, he still felt it now.
“I imagine you found that an odd request, considering . . . ” Calliope’s words drifted off, likely because everyone in the room was thinking the same thing. Why would Pamela want her husband near the woman to whom he’d once proposed?
“Not at all.” Brightwell’s gaze softened with a familiarity that made Gabriel tighten his grip on the head of his cane. “My wife knows that there is no animosity on my part. What is in the past remains there, Miss Croft. Please do not allow your concern for what you believe to be my discomfort sway your opinion. Your cousin’s health is all that matters now.”
Calliope drew in a breath and nodded. “Yes. You are quite right, Lord Brightwell.”
“No. It is not right,” Gabriel heard himself say. The vehemence in his tone must have shown on his face because there were startled glances his way. He didn’t care. He didn’t want Calliope to talk to Brightwell any longer. He didn’t want her to stay for her cousin’s health. He didn’t want her near enough to tempt him to insanity. She must leave immediately. “Croft, you could not possibly consider leaving your sister here with the likes of us.” With me.
“Be careful, Everhart,” Croft warned, his tone tinged with a reminder of the threat in Vauxhall Gardens. “Do not forget that you have your own family to worry about.”
Ah, yes. A perfect example of his forgiving nature. Croft could still ruin him. Gabriel had hoped that after five years of penance, he would be free. Yet having the Crofts here only made it clear that the letter he’d written had not faded from their memories, just as it had not faded from his.
“By all accounts,” Delaney offered, “Calliope would be here with her maid, her cousin, her cousin’s happily married husband—and three gentlemen who have declared never to marry.”
“If I may . . . ” Danvers interjected, holding up one finger. “It behooves me to mention that part of the wager included steering clear of unmarried women. Miss Croft is quite safe.”
“It behooves you, does it?” Gabriel knocked Danvers in the shin with his cane before turning to Calliope’s brother. “Croft, if Raena were in her place, I would never allow—”
“Lord Everhart,” Calliope Croft interrupted, pointing at him with her muff. “When your sister turns four and twenty, I do not believe you will have a say on what she can or cannot not do. While I will respect my brother’s decision, I have a mind of my own. In addition, being a spinster allows me certa
in freedoms, I’m sure.”
The word spinster seemed to echo like the toll of a bell. A specter of guilt crept up behind Gabriel. Her unwed state was partly his own fault—or entirely. If he hadn’t written that letter, she would have married Brightwell. Gabriel swallowed and noted how Croft narrowed his eyes at him.
“Your sister has a good head on her shoulders. Quite like her brother, I think.” Delaney patted the place above her husband’s heart. By all appearances, the gesture worked some sort of magic. Instantly, Croft’s gaze softened as he looked at his wife.
No.
Calliope seemed to notice too. A smile bloomed, bathing her features in a warm glow. “Then you are leaving the decision up to me?”
No. Croft would not permit such a thing, Gabriel assured himself.
Then, Croft gave a nod of consent.
Gabriel felt betrayed. He’d counted on Croft’s overbearing nature.
“But of course it would be wrong of me to extend my stay at Fallow Hall without an invitation.” Calliope cast a sly glance to Danvers.
Danvers—the traitor—posed a ready reply. “It goes without saying. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish. Let Fallow Hall be your second home.”
“Thank you, Mr. Danvers,” she said graciously and then looked askance at Gabriel to produce a rather smug sniff. “It will only be for a few days, I imagine.”
“Then we will all be the merrier for that time, right, Everhart?” Danvers reached over and chucked him on the shoulder.
Gabriel didn’t dare answer. This couldn’t be happening. Croft wasn’t leaving his sister here! The man who’d easily threatened to have him arrested and branded certainly wasn’t now relying on Gabriel’s sense of honor to ensure Calliope’s welfare.
For five years he’d kept to their bargain. He’d kept his distance from Calliope. Mostly, aside from following her to Bath. And now he was being repaid with Croft’s cruelty?
Gabriel glared at his nemesis and relished the day they would both return to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon. Next time, he wouldn’t hold back out of a sense of misguided loyalty.
The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 6
