by Diane Gaston
Soon they sat in the public room, drinking mugs of hot coffee and eating slices of ham, cheese and bread. Their table was located in the path most patrons needed to pass to be seated, so their conversation was frequently interrupted. Not that there was much conversation between them. What was he to say to Emmaline after their impassioned night together?
As they ate, a man bumped into Gabe’s chair. He looked to see who it was.
“Beg pardon,” the man said.
Gabe spoke to Emmaline after the man passed. “Are you concerned that the men who accosted you will show up here?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. They will see you first and avoid you, I am certain.”
Another man walked by, nodding a greeting. Gabe recognised him as one of the men he had questioned during the cock fight.
He glanced back at Emmaline and their gazes caught. Something had changed between them, he had to admit.
They were carnally aware of each other once again.
Emmaline blinked, and her expression turned to worry. “Where do we begin to look?”
Gabe shrugged. Perhaps it was only he who was preoccupied by their lovemaking. Her son consumed her thoughts. As always.
“We can toss a coin,” he suggested.
“Toss a coin?” Her brows knit in confusion.
He waved a hand. “We can go in any direction. One gives us as much a chance of succeeding as another.”
He took a sip of coffee, glancing up as yet another man walked by.
The man stopped. “Gabe?”
Gabe felt the blood drain from his face. It was his brother Paul.
His brother made a surprised sound. “Gabe! By God, it is you!”
Gabe rose and his brother enveloped him in a rough hug. “It is prodigious good to see you, but what the devil are you doing here?”
What spate of ill luck brought Paul here at the exact moment Gabe was sitting with Emmaline?
Without waiting for Gabe’s answer, Paul looked from Emmaline to Gabe, a question in his eyes.
Gabe moved closer to her. “Emmaline, may I present my brother, Mr Paul Deane. Paul, Madame Mableau.”
Emmaline extended her hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Paul clasped it. “You are French!” His eyes widened and he slid a very curious glance towards Gabe.
“Belgian,” she said.
Two other men had to squeeze by, and the serving girl stood with a tray full of food. “Your breakfast, sir,” she said to Gabe’s brother.
Gabe pulled out a chair. “Join us, will you?”
He signalled the tavern girl to put the food on the table.
His brother sat, but looked from Gabe to Emmaline instead of at his food. “What are you doing in Blackburn, Gabe? Are you billeted here?”
“No,” he replied. “I am still awaiting a commission.”
Paul did not even seem to hear him. His brow was creased and he looked at Emmaline, trying to puzzle out who she was and why she was sharing breakfast with Gabe.
Suddenly Paul’s eyes widened as if understanding dawned at last. His face immediately flushed red.
“What goes here?” he whispered to Gabe, inclining his head towards Emmaline.
She was witnessing all this, of course.
Paul’s disapproving expression looked so much like their father’s that Gabe was taken aback. Paul always had been a strait-laced prig. No doubt he’d concluded that Gabe and Emmaline had shared a bed as well as breakfast. He acted as if Gabe were seventeen and caught in a peccadillo, instead of a man in his mid-thirties who damned well could bed whomever he wished and didn’t need an older brother to pass judgement on him.
Or on her. It was unspeakably ill mannered of Paul to gesture and whisper and eye Emmaline so blatantly. He might as well point to her and yell, “Harlot!”
Emmaline had already blushed. Gabe was certainly not going to embarrass her more by giving his brother what for.
He made his voice mild. “To answer your questions.” Both the spoken one and the unspoken one. “Madame Mableau and I are in Blackburn on business, a private family matter that will not concern you—”
Paul’s brows rose as if waiting for more.
“I will lay your suppositions at rest and tell you what I intended to keep private a while longer—”
Paul’s expression turned smug. Emmaline stared down at her plate.
Gabe reached across the table and covered her hand with his own. He’d be damned if he let Paul shame her one second longer.
“Emmaline and I are betrothed.”
Chapter Thirteen
Emmaline’s gaze flew to his face. “Gabriel,” she mouthed.
His brother Paul released a laugh and rose to clap Gabriel on the shoulder. He took her hand from Gabe’s and shook it again. “That’s the stuff. Delighted for you. Can’t see all the secrecy—”
“None the less, you will respect our wishes,” Gabriel intoned.
She had felt such humiliation when Gabriel’s brother so obviously disapproved of her. These English were such moralistes about such matters.
She did not wish to feel shame for bedding Gabriel. She had never experienced such desire for him as she had the previous night. Never, not even during their happy nights in Brussels. It was as if all her anxieties for Claude, her fear of the drunken men and Gabe’s battling with them had transformed into passion. Even now her senses flared with the memory of its intensity.
Gabriel’s brother returned to his seat. “When are you planning to tell our mother this happy news? Are you returning to London after this? You should stop in Manchester on the way. Introduce her to the family.”
“We are not returning to London,” Gabe answered him.
“No? Where are you headed?” His brother slapped his forehead. “Of course. To our uncle’s. You are planning to pay him a visit.”
In Brussels Gabe had spoken of an uncle who lived on a sheep farm, but she did not know if this was the uncle his brother meant.
“Yes,” Gabe responded so quickly it took her aback. “We intend to call upon Uncle Will.”
Emmaline gaped at him. Did he mean that? What about Claude? Tranville? “Gabriel, you said—”
“Never mind what I said.” He silenced her with a firm gesture and a stern look. “We are visiting my uncle and announcing our betrothal to him.”
Not searching for Tranville? Not stopping Claude? Emmaline’s insides twisted into a knot.
She’d felt hopeful for a moment. She’d begun to believe in Gabriel, that their marriage might not be so grim, not with nights filled with lovemaking like they’d so recently shared. And then he abruptly changed what he’d promised to do.
How quickly her disquiet returned.
Gabriel behaved as Remy would have done, making plans and pronouncements without a word to her, without a moment’s consideration of her wishes. By the time Remy thought to tell her of where they would march or where they would live, it was a fait accompli, as autocratic as Gabriel with this visit to the uncle.
She trembled with anger. “Why not ask your brother to accompany us to this uncle?”
Gabriel shot her a surprised look.
Paul seemed to notice nothing amiss, however. He patted her hand. “Cannot do it. I’m off today. Taking the canal to Liverpool. I’m riding the barge with the goods we purchased here. It is a slow trip, you know, but pleasant.”
“Quel dommage. What a pity,” she responded with false emotion.
Paul rubbed his lip. “Dashed if I don’t feel guilty now. Uncle Will is so close; I ought to have called on him.” He dived into his plate of eggs. “Too late now.”
“What news of the family?” Gabriel asked. Apparently he’d dismissed her chagrin. That was like Remy, as well.
But she was acting like Remy’s wife, not speaking directly, relying on sarcasm that men seemed too obtuse to realise. Alors, this behaviour was exactly how she’d put Claude in d
anger all those years ago, when she hadn’t refused to follow her husband to Spain. She had not learned the lesson, had she? To confront, to defy, to demand.
Emmaline tried to act as if she were listening politely while the two brothers spoke of their large family, people she did not know. She must explain to Gabriel that she had no wealth of family. She had only Claude to be precious to her. Surely stopping Claude from committing murder was more important than visiting an uncle?
She shuddered, remembering the stable worker had said that Claude had left Blackburn the same day as Edwin.
She pressed her hand against her stomach. What if Claude had already found Edwin? What if he was lying in wait, ready to strike Edwin dead? What if a delay to visit this uncle kept them from finding Claude and stopping him in time?
The hand holding her fork began to shake.
Louisa Finch strode out of Rappard Hall, glad to escape its walls and breathe in the fresh morning air. On a routine day she savoured the singular pleasure of a morning’s ride. It gave her some respite from the duties she’d assumed at the Hall. On horseback she could forget she was a poor relation, lucky to have a roof over her head, food to eat and clothing on her back. Lady Rappard was her late mother’s cousin and Louisa’s closest living relative. Louisa was glad to show her gratitude to Lady Rappard by assuming the running of the house in her absence and by taking over the housekeeper’s duties. Poor Mrs Dart. Louisa supposed when Lord and Lady Rappard finally noticed the poor lady was too feeble and forgetful to complete her duties, they would pension her off to a cosy retirement. Then would Louisa become the housekeeper? To slip irrevocably into servant status was what she most dreaded.
She tried to shake off that thought.
It would be fortunate for her to have such respectable employment, but, at seventeen, daughter of an aristocratic family, she yearned for more than being buried on a country estate.
Louisa laughed out loud at herself. She was happy enough at Rappard Hall. The servants were like family to her, and she had Pomona, her lovely horse. Lord Rappard had allowed her to keep her horse, an expense she certainly could not bear on her own. Riding in the morning, useful work in the day, leisure in the evening. It was enough.
Her disquiet must be due to her cousin George and his friends descending upon the house. They were noisy and dirty and rude, and that Nicholas Frye was forever uttering suggestive remarks and giving her leering stares. He made her exceedingly anxious, especially because she must be constantly vigilant lest Nicholas and the other two guests bothered the maids in such a manner. George certainly was turning a blind eye to his friends’ antics.
She reached the stable and entered its wide doors, greeted by the scent of hay and leather and horse.
Mr Sellars, the stablemaster, walked up to her, wiping his hands. “Good morning to you, Miss Finch. You are here to ride today, eh?”
She smiled. “As always, Mr Sellars, if it is not too much trouble. I hope you are in good health today.”
“Fit as a filly. Thank you for asking,” the man responded. “I’ll get someone to saddle Pomona for you.” He gesture to a nearby groom. “Saddle Pomona for Miss Finch, lad.”
The young man turned and nodded.
“Is that your new worker?” she asked Mr Sellars. “How is he faring?”
“Never saw a lad so good with horses,” Mr Sellars responded with a satisfied look. “I tell you, it was a stroke of luck your cousin allowed John Coachman to give that lad a ride, else I would never have found him for hiring. He’s a hard worker. Takes the filthiest job without complaint.”
Mucking out the stables, she presumed. She glanced at the new worker curiously. He was lean and only a few inches taller than herself. She could not see his features clearly, but he looked to be around her age.
Mr Sellars went on. “I believe I’ll let him accompany you.”
She pursed her lips at him. “Now you know I feel perfectly comfortable riding alone. There’s no need to take a worker away from you.”
He shook his head. “Won’t hear of such nonsense. Would never forgive myself if something happened to you out there alone.” He turned and raised his voice. “Saddle a horse for yourself, lad. You’ll be riding with Miss Finch.” He gave Louisa a conspiratorial wink. “Mark my words. He’ll choose the horse that most needs a long ride.”
A few minutes later, the young man led a saddled Pomona and a spirited black gelding named Apollo, who indeed looked as if he were champing at the bit for a good run.
Louisa liked the looks of this new groom. He had dark hair in need of a trim poking out from under his cap. His face was clear and his large eyes were a vibrant blue, framed by dark thick brows. What’s more, there was a touch of sadness in those eyes and a melancholy turn to his full lips. Perhaps that was why she felt an inexplicable kinship.
Mr Sellars nodded and walked away without introductions. The young man held out a hand to assist her on to the mounting block.
She looked into those blue eyes as his strong hand gripped hers. “You are the new groom. Welcome. I am Louisa Finch.”
He released her and glanced away as she finished mounting. When she was in the saddle, his eyes met hers again.
He removed his hat and bowed his head. “I am Claude Mableau.”
Chapter Fourteen
Claude mounted the fine black horse that so reminded him of his own lost Coco, although this steed was undoubtedly of a finer pedigree. He could not help feeling excited to be riding such a horse, even if riding with this young lady unsettled him.
She looked to be a girl in the first bloom of womanhood, perhaps no more than two years younger than his eighteen years. Her cheeks were creased by dimples, created by a smile that seemed to bring sunshine into the stable with her.
Merely to glance at her made it hard for him to breathe.
Who was she? He’d heard of Lord and Lady Rappard, now summering at Brighton, and knew of their son, George, one of Tranville’s friends. No one had spoken of a girl living at Rappard Hall. Was she a member of the family or a servant?
Her riding habit did not look as fine as some ladies’ dresses he had seen since being in England. Perhaps she could be a servant. But what servant would have permission to ride such a fine horse as Pomona?
English people were such a puzzle.
She spoke, her voice as light and carefree as a summer breeze. “I hope you do not mind riding with me.”
Mind? To be on horseback? To be near her for a time? It would be a joy.
“I do not mind,” he responded.
They rode out of the stable and into the bright sunshine.
“You are French!” She sounded as if she was pleased by the notion.
Still, he’d learned it was not prudent to admit to his true nationality. “I am from Brussels.”
“How exciting that is.” She led them behind the stables where the paddocks were. The few other workers toiling there seemed to take little notice of them.
“Where do you wish to ride, miss?” he asked as they faced empty fields.
She laughed again, this time a throaty sound that made his male parts stir. “As far as we can go!”
She urged her horse into a gallop. It took him a stunned moment to follow. They whipped through thick green grass towards hills dotted with white sheep. Pomona ran with relish. Apollo galloped as if set free from a long confinement.
Claude felt almost happy.
When they approached a low hedge, he started to shout a warning to her, but Miss Finch jumped it with ease. He laughed aloud as Apollo sailed over behind her.
Miss Finch called to him as they charged on, “Glorious, is it not?”
It was not good for the horses to run full out for too long. He sensed it was time to slow down and was about to tell her so, when she pulled on her reins.
She signalled Pomona to walk. “We should rest the horses. There is a stream nearby. They can drink.”
The stream was a sh
ort distance away, nestled between lush green-leafed trees shading each bank. When they came closer, Claude heard the tinkling of the water running over rocks. It was like music. On the other side of the stream’s banks, black-faced sheep gazed at them curiously from their green pasture.
“Is this not a pretty place?” Miss Finch exclaimed.
He did not wish to admit that any place in England was pretty, even if this spot seemed as idyllic as if appearing in a dream.
