Gemma saw no need to detail how Mr Goodworth had attempted to save her purse. It sounded as if Miss Devonshire fancied the benefactor and there was no way to know the extent of their relationship. Gemma had seen the man leaving Miss Devonshire’s home, after all. ‘Sophie, why don’t you return to the carriage and instruct the driver as to where to place the remaining donations.’ A few minutes alone with Miss Devonshire was all Gemma desired. Either the woman would remember her father or not. There was no in between.
Sophie pivoted and rushed through the door, while Gemma waited no longer. ‘Miss Devonshire, I hope you don’t mind but I had a question concerning my father and I thought to ask, since it was mentioned he may have visited you at one time.’
‘Really?’ Miss Devonshire dashed a look from where she’d bent to place an empty basket on the floor. ‘When was this?’
‘Before he died, a little over two years ago.’ Gemma’s hope died at Miss Devonshire’s expression.
‘Pardon my bluntness, Lady Amberson, but I doubt I can remember a single chance occurrence from two years ago. Around here, a year’s worth of living happens in one month. People come and go, children are had, the lodging house population is everchanging.’ She exhaled in what could only be interpreted as a sign of finality.
‘He was a tall, handsome man. The Duke of Kent at the time…’
Miss Devonshire angled an eyebrow, her face all at once perturbed. ‘A duke? Well, did he announce his title when he visited me? Did he leave a calling card?’
Gemma was taken aback by the abrupt questions. ‘I can’t say.’ She should have thought to broach the subject more carefully, unprepared for the intricacies and overanxious to glean the slightest bit of information.
‘Do you know how many peers or respective servants deliver illegitimate offspring to my door? They leave behind their mistakes as if the act absolves the sin, and then never look back. A small bag of coins would go a long way in Charing Cross to feed and clothe the lot of orphaned and unwanted. But even in that small gesture, they are too selfish to provide.’ The older woman’s voice had dropped to a vehement mutter. ‘Worse yet, the same peers who dropped off their secrets or urged their mistresses to do the same are serving in Parliament, complaining of the conditions and working to rid London of the impoverished population. They don’t wish to improve the conditions. They don’t provide housing and food.’ She shook her head and then caught herself, as if she realised she’d gone on too long. ‘Forgive me. You asked a question and received far too much answer.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Gemma’s eyes scanned the modest kitchen where so many must come to satisfy their hunger. How callous and unfeeling of her brother. He should be ashamed. He consorted with others to close sanctuaries of hope such as this.
‘You can bring them right in here.’ Sophie rushed in followed by the driver of the carriage and two lanky boys who were mostly legs. ‘Excellent. That’s the lot.’ She smiled at the boys who turned red from her attention.
‘Thank you, ladies.’ Miss Devonshire shooed the boys from the kitchen and nodded at the driver as he turned to leave. ‘Please extend my gratitude to Mrs Sinclair. Her work with the Salvation Saviours is a blessing to us all. If only more of London’s population would work towards betterment and refuge.’
‘So how did this all begin, if you don’t mind my asking?’ Cole ambled beside Luke on a dusty dirt road leading across the Ipswich landscape. They’d decided to give their horses a rest and share a bit of conversation, the latter impossible since they’d ridden hard with a goal of accomplishing as far a distance as possible.
‘Don’t mind the question at all, though it’s a sad story and I’m the one to blame for it.’ Luke kicked a stone to the side of the roadway and didn’t pick up the discussion for several minutes. ‘I once lived in Woodbridge. That’s where I met Josephine. She was a good woman who cared for me and looked forward to becoming a mother, though she only had that joy for the start of Nathaniel’s life. Still, we were young and in a hurry to grow up, and we didn’t let too much bother us. Nate had just turned three when she fell ill. I’ll never know for sure why she died. None of us got sick after and the doctor could tell me little about the cause of death. I didn’t have the means to give her other than a simple burial.’
Cole thought to interrupt and express his condolences, but Luke seemed so engrossed in the retelling he didn’t wish to break the moment.
‘I took Nate and came to London. I got it in my head I could find my father and he would meet his grandson and all would be set to right. My mother left me a note with his name and address, no more than that. She’d moved to Woodbridge years before to find me a better life and raise me in the country where bastardry was overlooked or unimportant – admirable traits, I might add.
‘Anyways, when we got to London, me and the woman I hired to help with Nate, I went to the address and discovered my father was long dead, his title now settled on my half-brother, who lived there with his wife.
‘They took one look at Nathaniel and I and cast us off without a by-your-leave, but I stayed in London unsure of what my future held. I worked hard and gambled my wages, studied the odds until I knew them better than the alphabet and calculated them to win honestly. Soon after, I met you and Sinclair. We threw in our lot together and created the Underworld, but you know that part already.’ He chucked Cole on the shoulder as one would cuff a younger brother.
‘But what of Nathaniel? What happened?’ Cole couldn’t stop the questions now that Luke had begun to share.
‘What I never knew until it was too late was that, from the first day, my brother had me watched, and when he saw the success of our gaming hell and mentally calculated the profits, he decided he liked the idea of having a brother and nephew, most especially as he’d invested poorly and misspent the portion left to him by our father. He’d fallen into debt. By then Nathaniel was smart, a good boy, schooled by a tutor and looked after by a fine governess.’ Luke’s rambling slowed along with his steps. He swallowed, glancing right and left as if measuring the surroundings with great consideration. ‘It was a day just like this, warm temperature and the slightest breeze, when Nate was taken from me.’ He cleared his throat and continued. ‘I returned home to find the governess in tears. The silly cow had stayed in one spot and cried for hours. She was too scared to find me and tell me Nate was stolen. All that precious time wasted.’ A solemn silence followed.
‘How did you discover it was your brother? How long has he had your son?’ A surge of anger and objection rushed through Cole’s body, his muscles tensed as if he could strike out and destroy the pain suffered by his friend.
‘That’s another story for another day.’ Luke gave a false laugh. ‘I’ve chewed your ear long enough with my sorrows.’
Perhaps the story was too difficult to tell. Cole digested all this while wondering how Luke could wake each morning knowing his son was out there somewhere. Torment to that extent would annihilate Cole. Someday, if ever he was lucky enough to find himself with a loving family, he would protect and love them until his last breath.
‘What about you? There must be something more you want out of life than to oversee business and books at the hell.’ Luke’s usual devil-may-care attitude seemed recovered.
‘Of course.’ An image of Gemma materialised in his mind’s eye. He could love a woman like Gemma. No, not like Gemma. Her. Gemma. But she existed far beyond his reach and the delusional daydream in which he indulged needed to end. ‘I just haven’t found it yet,’ he lied, unwilling to delve any deeper into his feelings.
‘There it is.’ Luke stopped and indicated a distant house on a hill several miles down the road. ‘That’s my grandfather’s house.’
‘Then let’s get riding.’ Cole moved beside Charlatan, at the ready to mount. A hard ride often worked to chase away unwanted emotion. ‘We can be there before nightfall if we waste not a minute more.’
Gemma’s days passed in a blur of mundane
nothingness, which suited Kent’s edict she should behave as fitting her station and not leave the house without Nan. Outwardly she appeared the refined and dutiful sister. Inwardly she counted the days until Cole’s return. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t as though she could visit the Underworld and offer him a kiss. But knowing that he was in the same city, that he breathed the same air and experienced the same weather, became increasingly important as the week passed, and she didn’t dare inspect the reason her heart ached by knowing he was so far away.
With a claim of a megrim, she’d declined the Bardsleys’ weekly card party and likewise avoided Winton. Let him believe Kent kept her prisoner at Stratton House. It would serve him right for his nasty act of intrusion. She hoped Kent would see Winton for the conniving cur he was, though she doubted it. She could never marry such a man, black of heart and deviously misguided. She pitied the woman who would. No kiss in the world could change a toad into a prince.
The one encouraging note to these days was Rosalind’s cheerful behaviour. She ate meals in the dining room regularly and often walked through the gardens with Gemma. Somehow, Gemma believed Rosalind knew she pined a little for a man. And, too, it might be that Gemma babbled incessantly to fill the silence while they took the morning air.
They sat now beside the fireplace in the front drawing room. Nan embroidered near the window and Kent was out of house. Perhaps it was their comfortable silence which caused the sound of the brass knocker to elicit a collective startle. Rosalind followed the occurrence with a slight smile at Nan, who dropped her hoop with the scare.
‘Milady, you have a message.’ Dobbs brought in a silver salver. An ivory note folded and sealed lay atop.
‘Thank you.’ Accepting the paper, she expected a message from Sophie, but the handwriting looked unfamiliar. She peeked towards the window, relieved to see Nan occupied sorting through her threads and muttering at her clumsiness. She next assessed Rosalind’s position, but her sister’s eager attention remained focused upon a magazine filled with fashion plates.
Gemma turned in the overstuffed chair, slanting her body to shield notice from her maid, and broke the seal to read the words, her heart beating hard with anticipation, her finger a-tremble as it feathered over the paper’s edge.
Accept the invitation for the Herberts’ Ball tomorrow evening – C.
She crinkled the note in her fist, crushed it against her chest and stole a second look towards Nan, her maid once again counting stitches.
Smoothing away the creases, she folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of her skirt before she rose with a sigh. ‘Has anyone reviewed today’s invitations? There were a few cards on the entryway console.’ To whom did she direct the question? Nan would never impose and Rosalind was not responsible for such a task. Gemma glided across the room and out into the hall where she located the Herberts’ invitation with voracious interest, penned an acceptance and sent it by messenger, all within fifteen minutes. Exhaling with relief, she slumped against the newel post in the hall. Her pulse hummed, her mind raced and she eyed the clock, already calculating the minutes until she would see Cole again.
The Herberts represented old money and decades of tradition, as did many of the fine homes on Wigmore Street. Kent would never fault Gemma’s desire to attend the affair and as she disembarked his carriage she smiled with the perfection of Cole’s missive and the expectancy of his kiss. Gravel crunched under her satin slippers as she made way to the entrance, bright with paper lanterns in every shade of blue from indigo to sky. Inside a servant collected her wrap and announced her arrival while Nan scurried to make conversation with the other chaperones who’d accompanied their ladies for an evening not nearly as thrilling.
Gemma entered the ballroom and scanned the room, though she’d already deliberated the matter during the carriage ride. Cole would not be invited to, nor welcome at, an esteemed event of the ton, so how he planned to see her, hopefully kiss her, remained a mystery.
Her smile faltered as her eyes fell on Lord Winton, half shadowed in a far corner across the room and engrossed in what appeared a convivial conversation with two other guests. She most certainly did not wish him to see her and with a smooth two steps moved behind a wide marble column adjacent to where a large tapestry spanned the wall. A few more steps and she’d be out on the terrace. Her stomach twisted with indecision. What was she to do? Subterfuge and skulking about were not in her nature, though she was no stranger to risk or reckless decision. She must trust Cole would find her. He’d requested her to attend, had he not? Fear warned her not to miss the opportunity nor choose the wrong place to linger, hope balanced on a precipice all the ready to plummet to her slippers. Her soul was not made for deception.
Frozen with indecision, she was approached by a servant, his tray laden with long-stemmed flutes filled with an assortment of beverages. He smiled in her direction, which was simply not done, and she puzzled momentarily at how easily he’d located her when she stood obscured from the crowd, out of sight. Still, servants existed to be invisible, and this footman had instead found her. He paused and extended the tray.
‘If there is nothing to your liking here, perhaps you should try the salon.’ He met her eyes directly, his words unmistakable.
‘Thank you.’ She accepted a beverage and watched him take his leave, the servant’s comment a riddle she still hadn’t solved. Servants did not offer opinions unless asked to do so. Servants did not suggest a change of room. Of course.
She placed her untouched drink on the rosewood sideboard between the windows and hurried into the hall. Slowing her steps to draw less notice she advanced down the hallway towards the rear of the house and on her third attempt located the salon.
The room was lit with several glass lanterns, the décor jonquil and emerald, but she’d rather not admire the Herberts’ fine taste in silk wallcoverings, her pulse pounding a nervous tattoo of anticipation and hopeful adventure.
One of the terrace doors opened and her heart nearly leapt from her chest. And then, he was there; silhouetted by moonlight and candlelight, and quite possibly the gleam of her smile.
‘You found me.’ Her voice sounded breathy.
‘You found me.’ He took one step into the room. ‘Now we must go.’ He extended his arm and she hesitated, confused by his hurried retort.
‘Go? Where?’ She glanced over her shoulder as if the entire assembly of guests were her audience.
‘Come, Gemma. Do not waste the little time we have.’
It was enough to set her feet into motion and she went to him, out of the terrace doors and through the back garden where he slid the latch on the gate and escorted her into the night. A smile broke free as she filled her lungs with the cool night air.
‘I will have you returned before your maid knows you’re gone.’ He sounded confident enough for them both.
Concealed behind tall junipers, she reached up and touched his cheek, regretting the long silk gloves which prevented her skin from touching his. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Yes.’ He chuckled and captured her hand to tug forward.
‘These hedgerows are a maze.’
‘Don’t worry. I know the way like I know my name.’ He glanced over his shoulder, his smile a flash of white in the darkness.
They’d only advanced a short length, weaved between houses and shrubbery, before he entered the back property of a tall townhouse. A few candles burned in the upstairs windows but the downstairs remained cloaked in black.
‘Cole.’ She stopped, out of breath from their sneaky escape and nervous with his nonchalant trespassing. ‘I cannot enter this yard. What are you doing? Where are we going?’ Her usual inquisitive nature took hold, polished with a fine veneer of panic. Yes, she wanted, more than she dared admit, the chance to speak to him again, kiss him again. But she could not trespass on a stranger’s property, the risk of criminal daring beyond her capability.
‘I have the key, sweet Gemma.’ He dandled
a fob from his fingertips, the glint of brass reflected by the starlight.
‘But who lives here? We can’t simply arrive at someone’s home unannounced.’ She refused to move, not another step, though a note of reluctance snuck into her objection. The words needed to be said despite she loathed each one, full knowing her objection would deny her heart.
‘We are expected and, if you must know, I live here.’ He smiled again and her soul trembled. ‘If only I had a way to capture your expression, first befuddlement, followed by awareness, and finished now with awe.’ He squeezed her fingers tight.
‘You live here?’ She stepped through the wrought-iron gate and followed him over the slated path. ‘Here?’ As if his answer could have implied another location.
‘Come along.’ He turned the key in the backdoor lock and ushered her inside, the rustle of her skirts as they brushed against his trousers a whisper that echoed their secrecy and shushed out the rest of the world.
‘I had no idea.’ She stood still, taking a breath, a little in shock, while he lit two candles.
‘I thought we might wish for a few minutes alone.’
He returned to stand in front of her and for the first time she had a clear view of his face. He looked incredibly dashing, handsome and wicked, that same lock of hair having its way. This time she surrendered to the urge and reached to tuck it back into place. Dratted gloves. She shook her head in frustration and fumbled through the pearl buttons, peeled them off, dropping the pair on a nearby table without a care. ‘That’s better.’
‘Is it now?’
He pulled her forward, his reckless regard sending her off balance, his chest against hers all the support she needed.
‘It feels like forever since I saw you last, my beautiful minx.’
His words came out on a growl and her heart turned over with the husky tenor of his compliment. Excitement flushed her skin hot. Everywhere their bodies connected became sensitised, no matter fabric and layers separated them, as if they were drawn together by a force beyond their control. She wanted to say many different things and settled for the fewest words. ‘I missed you too.’
Into the Hall of Vice Page 14
