“If this is your method of asking whether I told her about the letter—or letters, rather—I have.” But he’d botched it in the end.
“You confessed all?”
“All except your part,” Gabriel said. “I did not see a reason to make excuses for my actions. I take full responsibility for my own choice, and I mean to give her back all the years she’s lost through my carelessness.”
“How am I to believe you? Perhaps seeing her merely brought your guilt to the surface, and this is how you mean to remedy that inconvenient emotion.”
“Five years ago, I had to choose between Scylla and Charybdis—or more aptly, between disgracing my family and keeping my distance from the woman I loved. And I am here to tell you that I still love Calliope. I always have. Brand me with an iron; I care not. She will be my wife.”
Croft crossed his arms over his chest. “Then tell me, Everhart, if this love of yours is so apparent, then why hasn’t Calliope mentioned your intentions or your name even once?”
Gabriel’s last conversation with Calliope at Fallow Hall only confirmed that she and her brother were of like minds.
She hadn’t believed him or given him the chance to explain. Of course, a lifetime of imprudent choices had worked against him. He could have resolved it by forcing her to hear him, but he’d feared the same result. And her lack of faith in him—after she’d been his champion—had wounded him far more than he wanted to reveal. Still, he knew he was to blame for all of his own misery and hers.
“I thought Croft would have remained in Scotland for a few more weeks,” he said to Montwood, feigning a lack of interest.
“Apparently his wife and his sister were eager to return.” His friend tossed the stone up in the air again. “Oh, and he might have mentioned a concern for Miss Croft’s health.”
“Calliope is ill?”
As if indifferent, Montwood continued to toy with the stone. “No need to concern yourself. She seemed in fine health when Danvers and I dropped by for a visit at her family’s townhouse.”
“And what did you speak of?” Gabriel reached forward and snatched the rock from midair.
“Oddly enough, the wager,” the amber-eyed serpent said with a laugh. “Miss Croft said—in no uncertain terms—that the wager was yours to win. Essentially, she told Danvers and I that we were fools to bet against someone so determined never to marry.”
Gabriel bit back an oath. Hadn’t he proved how wrong such a statement was? He’d wanted to marry her all along. He still did. Even now, he was devising a plan to win her back. But instead of answers to his conundrum, he found only these buggering green stones!
“No. I was the fool,” Gabriel said. “I never should have made that wager. And if Miss Croft so chooses, she holds the key to humiliate and ruin me. The key, I might add, for you and Danvers to reap the rewards by year’s end.”
“Do you mean with this?” Montwood reached inside his coat and withdrew a familiar letter. “She asked me to give it to you. Of course, it had been folded into a blank page and sealed, but—wouldn’t you know it—the seal broke, and this old letter simply popped out. Damndest thing.”
No. Gabriel stared at the familiar page as if it were about to catch fire. This wasn’t right. Calliope couldn’t return the letter. She’d kept it for five years. By her own admission, she was in love with the man who’d written that letter. That was all Gabriel had to cling to at the moment. He refused to believe she was letting him go.
He swallowed. “You read it, I suppose.”
Montwood grinned, revealing a dimple in his cheek.
Bugger it all! Gabriel snatched the letter. “So then you know.”
His friend lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug as he settled back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other. “I’ve known for years that you loved her. I was there watching you make calf’s eyes after her when Brightwell was courting her. Although I never realized you were so poetic.” He waggled his brows. “You know, together we could write the most maudlin of love songs. I say we leave our gentlemen’s cloaks behind, become the Traveling Casanovas, and take the ton by storm. What say you?”
“The wager.” Gabriel threw the rock at him. “You set me up to fail, all along.”
“Actually, I was planning to set you up, but as it turned out, serendipity was my bosom companion. I didn’t have to do anything other than play a waltz when I knew you were together. You, my friend, sabotaged yourself.”
Montwood picked up the rock and resumed tossing it, but this time it slipped out of his hand and onto the stone terrace floor. Looking down, he started. “You are utterly surrounded by green stones. I don’t recall seeing them here a moment ago. How strange. It reminds me of all those red feathers we started finding around Fallow Hall before we left. There were positively hundreds of them.”
Red feathers? And now the green stones? There was only one thing missing.
Gabriel shook his head and started to laugh. “You have the right of it, my friend. The only thing I seem to do well is sabotage myself. It’s time I did so again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
In Calliope’s bedchamber on Upper Brook Street, Meg finished buttoning the back of Calliope’s blue striped day dress and let out a long, slow breath. In the mirror, the edges of a ruffled cap shimmied as the maid shook her head.
“What has put a worrier’s mark on your brow, Meg?”
Another exhale followed as her maid slowly met her gaze in the glass. “Your monthly bandages are still in the wardrobe, untouched.”
Calliope gulped and moved away from the mirror. Surely her courses weren’t due yet. She counted the days in her head . . . “I’m certain traveling for so many days in a carriage has altered my schedule.”
Traveling had never altered her courses before, but the notion seemed plausible. The thought was better than panicking over the unexpected. And for someone who liked knowing exactly what to expect, her lack of dread was quite novel.
“Altered,” Meg murmured. “Though I wonder why your sisters’ didn’t change too, and they only just returned from their trip to Bath. You and your sisters all have your courses on the new moon. Only this time . . . ”
“It’s only been a week since then.” Three weeks since she’d made love to Gabriel. Calliope’s stomach clenched, and her pulse quickened. Perhaps she felt a little panicked. She turned on her heel. “Oh, Meg. Do you think anyone else has noticed? Though I’m sure it’s nothing more than travel weariness.”
“Mrs. Hatchet in the laundry didn’t say anything.” Meg held Calliope’s gaze. “And you know I would never.”
“I know,” she said with a nod. Both were a relief. One good thing about living in a house full of women was that a few missing bandages during such a week would hardly be noticed. Had it been different, Mrs. Hatchet would have gone directly to Octavia Croft, and Calliope’s mother would have gone directly to Father. The last thing Calliope wanted was to disappoint her parents.
“What will you do?” There was no getting anything by Meg. They were the same age and had been together for the past ten years. The bond between them was more akin to friendship than to servant and mistress.
Calliope’s courses had never been late before. Not once. Not even when she’d suffered an illness. A more romantic-minded person might try to convince herself that they were merely delayed. A more romantic-minded person might believe there was little cause for worry, because it usually took months to conceive a child. Her sister-in-law was proof of that, wasn’t she? It couldn’t have happened in one night. No matter how life-altering that night had been.
But Calliope had given up being romantic-minded.
She looked at her reflection once more, securing a comb in her hair. So much in her had altered and not only her innocence. She knew that holding onto foolish dreams was pointless. Life was not about dreams and hoping to turn the page for a happy ending. Life was about stepping outside of her own novel and seeing the truth of what she had before her.
“I might ask Griffin if I can watch over Brannaleigh Hall while he and Delaney are in town,” Calliope said, releasing a breath. Beyond that, she couldn’t guess.
Yet surprisingly, the notion of carrying Gabriel’s child had softened her heart toward him. Of course, she still loved him. That hadn’t changed. It never could. Losing him—and losing the dream of what she’d seen in him—didn’t hurt quite so much with this realization. Because in that one single night they’d shared, she had believed herself in love and loved in return, with a passion that rivaled any novel she’d ever read. Hadn’t that been what she’d wanted all along?
No matter how foolish she’d been for wanting it.
Therefore, when Montwood and Danvers had come to see her last week, she’d decided to return the Casanova letter. She wasn’t going to unmask Gabriel. There was no spite in her. Just an ache that she hoped would mend someday.
Meg had just finished making the bed when someone knocked at the bedchamber door. The sound roused Calliope from a daydream enough to notice that she was standing in front of the mirror again, her hands splayed over her middle. As Meg crossed the room, Calliope dropped her arms to her sides. A flush of guilt tinged her cheeks.
“You have a caller, miss.”
“At this hour?” To be certain she hadn’t been daydreaming overly long, she glanced to the clock on the mantel. Indeed, it was too early for callers. The family was not roused yet for breakfast. “Who is it?”
Calliope descended the stairs and crossed the hall to the parlor. In the midst of the vibrant colors of the room, Brightwell stood, hat in hand, wearing somber gray attire. She hadn’t realized until this moment how he never would’ve fit in her world. All along, she thought it was the other way around. But where was Pamela?
He inclined his head. “Miss Croft, I apologize for arriving at such an unseemly hour.”
“I admit it is rather alarming, and for you to arrive without my cousin.” Her mind flew into dozens of different directions, and none of them eased the unsettled pall that fell over her heart. Perhaps Pamela has run off with Gabriel after all. “Was my cousin well when you left her this morning?”
“Yes, your cousin is well and, I might add,” he said, pausing to clear his throat, “still residing in our home.”
In other words, she hadn’t run off with Gabriel. Calliope sagged onto the arm of the sofa with relief. “That is good news.”
A look of understanding passed between them.
“Which brings me directly to the purpose of my visit.” Brightwell placed a hand over his heart. “I have wronged you, Miss Croft. I have had knowledge of a certain matter that would have spared you grief, had it not been for my own jealousy.”
Jealousy, indeed. And rightfully so when it concerned his wife and Everhart.
He continued before she could form her response. “I have always known about the Casanova letter that Everhart wrote to you all those years ago.” His mouth pressed into a firm line. “I also know about the letter that he wrote to my wife . . . not so long ago.”
“Brightwell, I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head. “No, Miss Croft. It is my place to apologize. You see, I must also confess that . . . when I proposed to you, I knew that you were never going to marry me.”
Calliope felt her brow furrow. “How could you have known such a thing?”
Brightwell cleared his throat and glanced at the hat he held before him. “I’d realized it the moment that Everhart joined our circle. For lack of a better word, you glowed whenever he was near. Why he pretended not to like you when it was patently clear to anyone who saw the two of you dancing, I’ll never fully understand. All I can say is that when he didn’t step forward, I did.”
And they both knew how that had turned out. “I am sorry, Brightwell, for so many things.” One of them being that she’d never loved him. The thing about Brightwell was that he never would have broken her heart. But that was because she never would have given it to him.
“You made the right choice,” he reassured her. “Had it not been for my jealousy, I would have encouraged Everhart to pursue you. Instead, while he was taking me on a tour of the continent, I incited his guilt.”
“Not very noble of you.” She wondered why she felt compelled to come to Everhart’s defense. But knowing that Brightwell had abused him irritated her.
“Very true, Miss Croft. And now to the main point of my visit. I must admit to the most recent of my crimes.” He tucked his hat behind him and drew in a deep breath. “I wrote out two anagrams for your game at Fallow Hall, to purposely thwart your discovery of Everhart’s secret.”
At first she was confused. Two anagrams? Then swiftly, she was appalled. Her mouth dropped open. “That was why I hadn’t recognized Everhart’s handwriting. Why would you do such a thing?”
“I am ashamed to tell you.” His gaze lowered, and he shuffled his feet on the edge of the carpet. “When Pamela told me of your conversation with her about the letter and about the questions you posed to her, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of . . . vanity. I’d never once been accused of writing that letter, and I should have been. So after I heard of your sudden interest in a game where handwritten clues were required, I took a leap of logic and determined that you were hoping to identify the handwriting. I wanted the mystery of Casanova’s identity to continue. Because with the mystery, I couldn’t be discounted.”
Guilty of his accusation, Calliope flushed. “Brightwell, I—”
He lifted a hand to stop her and shook his head. “Please don’t, Miss Croft. There is no need to explain. Besides, it is my place to apologize. Likely, I’ll add many more to the list before I am finished.”
Seeing him color in what she perceived was embarrassment, she accepted this with a nod. It could not be easy for him.
“And to the next,” he continued, forging ahead, as if eager to put it all behind him, “I knew that your cousin fancied herself in love with Everhart. When it first began, I was actually relieved that she’d stopped mooning over the gardener. At least I knew I could trust Everhart alone with her. Yes, Miss Croft, that’s correct. I trust Everhart.”
That surprised Calliope. “Even now?”
Brightwell nodded. “The only types of conversations he had with my wife were about her family. I believe it was in the hopes of discovering whatever he could about you. Over the years, Everhart frequently steered conversations toward your family and your father’s health, and to your brother and his recent marriage. He’d even taken to speaking of those who live on Upper Brook Street, Miss Croft.” He offered an uncharacteristic shrug. “So you see, he never would have run away with Pamela. In fact, I’m the one who asked him to drive her to the country to see her mother on the day of the accident. Looking back, I should have warned him about her nature.”
At the mention of the accident, and the fact that her cousin had thrown herself at Everhart, Calliope was not inclined to feel much forgiveness. “That does not explain why Everhart wrote Pamela a love letter.”
“Doesn’t it?” Brightwell’s pale brows lifted. He blinked. “Forgive me, but I thought you’d read it. From my understanding, even though the address is to my wife, I believe the contents were written to you.”
“No. You are wrong.” Wasn’t he? She couldn’t have made such a mistake.
Reaching into his coat, he withdrew the letter and unfolded it. “My dearest Pamela, My heart yearns for the siren who captured it. For years, I have waited for her to find me—waiting endlessly for one word that would draw me to her shore. I crave the sight of dark honey tresses spilling over”—he cleared his throat and kept his gaze on the letter—“the bare shoulders I never touched. I long for the brush of those”—he paused again—“lips I dared not taste. And
my arms ache from the weight they do not hold. I am wrecked without her, and I would never allow Brightwell to endure such a fate. Your friend . . . etcetera.”
Calliope could barely breathe. She hadn’t read the full letter at Fallow Hall. After reading siren on the first line, it had been too painful to imagine that he was using the same words to woo her cousin. And yet, Pamela did not have dark honey tresses. Her hair was pale, like corn silk.
I am wrecked . . .
Could it be true? She didn’t want to allow her overly romantic notions to cloud her judgment any longer. She wanted to see things for exactly what they were. Knitting her fingers she walked from the sofa to the window and back again. “I’m not certain what to think.”
Brightwell folded the letter and returned it to his pocket. Then, as if he thought better of it, he placed it on the sofa table, leaving it in Calliope’s possession. “With what’s in the Post this morning, I thought it high time you had the full story.”
“The Post?” She stepped out into the hall and saw a freshly pressed copy waiting on the rosewood table. Carrying it to the table near the window in the parlor, she quickly skimmed the first page, the second . . . Then, halfway down the third, her breath caught in her throat.
CASANOVA UNMASKED
I, formerly known as the love-letter Casanova, do hereby confess to cowardice.
I fell in love with a young woman years ago and subsequently wrote a letter expressing this sentiment. Yet before I posted the letter, I removed my signature from the bottom of the page. Even so, this undeniably clever siren nearly discovered my true identity. In fear, I wrote a series of other letters—for which I must apologize—in order to keep her from finding me. In doing so, I broke my beloved’s heart, in addition to others.
With this confession, I hope that her precious heart will begin to mend. I love her still. I will love her always.
Hers irrevocably,
Gabriel Ludlow
Viscount Everhart
Turning around to face Brightwell, she felt her lips, her cheeks, and even her eyes tilted upward into a smile. Unable to suppress her happiness, she crossed the room, fully prepared to embrace him. He, however, held his hat in front of him like a shield, and she dared not.
The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 21
