by Mary Balogh
At least now, tonight, she was on her way to Vauxhall Gardens—her favorite place in all of England, with the possible exception of Bath, where Cousin Camille lived with Joel and their large family. But Bath was a whole city, while Vauxhall was a pleasure garden on the south bank of the river Thames, and stepping into it at night was to step into a magical world, a sort of paradise. One could not possibly remain depressed when one was going to Vauxhall. At least, she hoped one could not.
She was mortally tired of being depressed.
It promised to be a warm evening and she had been able to wear the gauzy dark peach–colored gown she had been saving for a special occasion, with the fine cashmere wrap that was only a shade or two lighter in color. Aunt Viola had invited her with the promise of an enjoyable evening with a small party, mainly family members, in a private box, from which they could listen to the orchestra and watch the dancing and even dance themselves. There were even to be fireworks later.
She was in a carriage with Boris and Peter Wayne, her younger cousins, who had assured both their mother and hers that they would guard her with their lives and bring her home in one piece sometime after midnight, when all the fireworks had been shot off. Really, though, they had wanted her as a sort of chaperon for the other occupant of the carriage: Alice Wayne, a young cousin on their father’s side, who had recently arrived in London and was about to share a come-out ball with the two daughters of a friend of her mother’s. Her eyes had been sparkling from the moment she stepped into the carriage with them. Jessica felt eighty years old.
She wondered who else would make up the party. Was she doomed to be the eldest, apart from Aunt Viola and the marquess? There would be Estelle and Bertrand, of course, and the four of them who were in this carriage. Perhaps one or two more. But they were bound to see other acquaintances there. They were sure to have a good time. She felt desperately in need of a good time. She wanted to be appreciated, admired, flirted with. She wanted to appreciate, admire, and flirt—something she almost never did. She wanted to dance and laugh and stroll along the main avenue through the gardens, reveling in the wonder of colored lanterns swaying in the branches of the trees on either side. She wanted to be a part of the gaiety of the crowds that would be there. She wanted to feel young and attractive.
Oh, she had waited too long to seek her own happiness. She was twenty-five years old. Ancient. Abby had married two years ago at the age of twenty-four. She was happy and in love. She had children and a home and a garden and neighbors and a husband who, for all his dour outer appearance, was absolutely besotted with her. As she was with him.
Self-pity clawed at Jessica’s insides. And she had no one but herself to blame. She gave herself a mental shake and joined in the burst of laughter that followed something marvelously witty Boris had said, though she had not heard what it was.
Aunt Viola and the Marquess of Dorchester were already sitting in the open box they had reserved on the lower level of the rotunda, close to the orchestra and overlooking the dancing area. So were Estelle and Bertrand and Miss Keithley, the sister of Bertrand’s friend, and another young lady whom Jessica believed to be Miss Keithley’s younger sister. And . . . Mr. Rochford.
But of course, she thought the instant her eyes alit upon him and he got to his feet, having spied her at the same moment. He made her an elegant bow while he smiled dazzlingly at her. Of course he was here. Aunt Viola was one of the Westcott aunts, was she not? And in the few days since Avery had withheld his blessing on Mr. Rochford’s suit, her mother had gone visiting twice without Jessica—once to Grandmama’s and once to Aunt Mildred’s. To rally the troops, no doubt.
Well, she was not going to let his presence spoil her evening, Jessica decided as they all exchanged effusive greetings and she succeeded in seating herself between Bertrand and his father. She would just be very careful not to allow him to monopolize her company. Let Estelle entertain him or Miss Keithley or someone else.
So there were six ladies and five gentlemen. That was unusually careless of Aunt Viola. But of course again! This party at Vauxhall had been planned more than a week ago. She had probably invited Mr. Thorne too, for the family committee had a two-pronged matchmaking goal. Perhaps Aunt Viola had not yet realized that he had disappeared, apparently without a trace. Or, if she had realized it, maybe it had been too late to invite another gentleman in his place.
But then . . .
Well, but then he came, tall and broad shouldered and immaculately elegant as he strode purposefully toward the box. He bowed to Aunt Viola, shook hands with the marquess, and nodded to everyone else, Jessica included.
“I do beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said to Aunt Viola. “A cart had overturned on the bridge, completely blocking it, and it took several minutes to clear the roadway after it became evident that all the shouting and gesticulating was not going to accomplish the task.”
Jessica wished the cart had been full of rotten cabbages and that it had overturned onto his head.
* * *
* * *
Since he had not warned the Marquess and Marchioness of Dorchester that he might not be able to attend their gathering at Vauxhall Gardens and undoubtedly they had arranged it so that there would be an equal number of ladies and gentlemen, Gabriel had made a push to be back in London in time. He had made it with three hours to spare, just time enough to bathe the grime of the road from his person and to dress appropriately for such an evening. Then had come the frustration of the spill on the bridge across the river Thames that had made him late arriving after all. It vexed him, as he had long made it a habit never to be late for appointments or social events to which he had been specifically invited.
Lady Jessica Archer looked very lovely and very haughty indeed, though she unbent sufficiently to joke with her cousins while they dined upon a meal that included the thin slices of ham and the strawberries for which Vauxhall was famous, according to Lady Vickers. Lady Jessica also played gracious hostess to a steady stream of men who came to pay homage after they had finished eating. She came close to flirting with a few of them. She danced with Dorchester and with her cousin, the elder of the two Wayne brothers.
She studiously ignored Gabriel. He might have thought he was invisible to her except that she had a way of not looking at him that involved a raised chin and a supercilious expression that disappeared as soon as she looked at someone else.
So she was annoyed with him. Because he had left town for almost a week without telling her? If that was the reason, it was encouraging.
She was doing her best to ignore Rochford too. That was not always easy to do. When the man was going through all the motions that indicated he was about to ask her to dance, she turned pointedly to the other of her young cousins and informed him that this was the dance for which he had asked earlier. Young Peter Wayne looked a bit surprised, as well he might, as undoubtedly this was the first he was hearing of it. But he jumped to his feet, the perfect gentleman, and actually thanked her for remembering.
And when the marchioness suggested after that dance that they all take a walk along the main avenue in order to work off some of the effects of the rich foods they had eaten and had begun to suggest that her niece take Rochford’s arm, Lady Estelle jumped in with an objection.
“Oh,” she said, “but I am about to tell Mr. Rochford about that bonnet I almost purchased yesterday, Mother—the one that had what looked very much like a bird’s nest perched upon the crown. Do you remember it? It is such a funny story. You will laugh, Mr. Rochford.” And she threw a mischievous glance Gabriel’s way, smiled engagingly at Rochford, and slid an arm through his while her stepmother half frowned at her and glanced almost apologetically at her niece.
“Lady Jessica,” Gabriel said. “Perhaps you will give me the pleasure of your company.”
By then her young cousins had paired up with the Misses Keithley, and Bertrand Lamarr had taken the wide-eyed little girl
on his arm—she was apparently a cousin of the Wayne boys and must surely be eighteen if she was at such a party, though she could easily pass for fourteen. Short of grabbing her uncle’s arm, Lady Jessica had no choice but to take his.
A small crowd had gathered to watch the dancing. They had to weave their way through it to reach the avenue beyond. By the time Gabriel got there with Lady Jessica, the others were already walking ahead.
“I was told when I first arrived in town that I absolutely must not miss spending an evening at Vauxhall,” he said. “I was told there was something particularly lovely about the combination of trees and avenues and colored lamps swaying from the branches and the good food and music and dancing. And fireworks. The person who told me did not exaggerate.”
“It is a pleasant place at which to spend a few hours,” she said.
“We are particularly fortunate to have been invited on an evening when the weather conditions are perfect,” he said.
“Yes, indeed,” she agreed.
“Cool but not cold,” he said. “Not windy but with enough of a gentle breeze to set the lanterns moving in the branches and their colors to forming patterns that are a feast for the eyes.”
“It is a pleasant evening,” she conceded.
“You are cross with me,” he told her.
She raised her eyebrows but kept her eyes on the avenue ahead, while all around them revelers moved at different paces and in both directions, talking, laughing, calling ahead or behind to others. The music was still quite audible.
“Cross, Mr. Thorne?” she said. “Whyever would I be cross with you?”
“For apparently abandoning you,” he said. “It was not real abandonment, you know. I had every intention of coming back. I came as soon as I possibly could.”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Thorne,” she said. “You have overestimated your importance. Have you been gone somewhere? I had not noticed.”
“Had you not indeed?” he said. “I am crushed.”
He moved her and himself to one side of the avenue, where they would have to do less weaving past other couples and larger groups. There were trees on either side of the avenue, their branches almost meeting overhead in some places. It was even more picturesque than he had imagined. Not quite real. The pastel lamplight made the trees seem something other than what they were. It was no wonder these were called pleasure gardens.
“I needed to leave town on urgent business,” he said.
She had no answer to that. She opened her fan and waved it slowly before her face—quite unnecessarily. There was a cool breeze.
The rest of the party had got some way ahead of them, he could see. Her aunt would not worry about her, though. She was of age, unlike some of the other young ladies of the party.
He did not try to keep the conversation alive. He had been merely teasing her, anyway, with the banal remarks he had been making. She looked as haughty as she had on his first encounter with her. He was no longer deceived, however. At the moment, in fact, he guessed she was boiling inside. She was severely annoyed with him. Had she considered their kiss some sort of declaration? Had she expected him to follow up on it with a visit to her brother the next day, perhaps? Just so that she could refuse him?
Would she have refused?
“Mr. Thorne,” she said at last when they were halfway along the avenue. “Did you . . . assault your neighbor’s daughter?”
Ah. So that was what was bothering her, was it?
“Are you asking if I raped her?” he asked.
She turned her head away to gaze through the trees. He did not suppose that word was used often, if at all, in her hearing. She was probably blushing, though it was impossible to verify his suspicion in the colored lantern light.
“The answer is no,” he said.
“It was consensual, then?” she asked. “Was there a child?”
“There was a child,” he said. “A boy, now twelve years old. He is not mine. There was never any possibility that he might be.”
She thought that over for a minute.
“Her brother died?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “The day he discovered his sister was with child. He died from a bullet in his back.”
Their steps had slowed but not quite stopped.
“Did you kill him?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “He was my friend.”
“Friends kill friends,” she said, “when one of them does something to kill the friendship.”
“I had done nothing to kill ours,” he told her. “And I did not kill him.”
“But you ran away,” she said. “You even took another name to throw off any pursuit. You stayed away for thirteen years. Even now you have not revealed your identity to anyone but me—and perhaps to Sir Trevor and Lady Vickers?”
“To them, yes,” he said. “I ran away because I was a frightened boy of nineteen and I was about to be arrested for a murder I had not committed. My uncle urged me to go, and I went.”
“Does not an innocent man stay to clear his name?” she asked.
“In a work of fiction, perhaps,” he said, “when one can take comfort from the assurance that good will prevail and evil will be punished. In the real world innocent people hang as often as the guilty.”
“He is a complete and total liar, then?” she said. “Mr. Rochford, I mean.”
“I am prepared to give him the benefit of some doubt,” he said. “He was about ten years old at the time. He did not know the situation. He did not know me. He had never been to Brierley. It would be quite understandable for him to believe the story his mother and father took home with them.”
“Took home?” she said. “His parents were there at the time, then?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Did they too urge you to run away?” she asked.
He thought about it. “Manley did,” he said. “His wife and my cousin Philip’s wife were comforting my aunt, who was in frail health to start with and had apparently collapsed with shock. They were all afraid I would be arrested and convicted. Manley and Philip did not believe my alibi would be credible.”
“They all believed you to be guilty, then,” she said.
“I did not speak with the women before I fled,” he said. “But the three men implied that they believed it.”
“Who was the father of the child?” she asked. “And who killed the mother’s brother and your friend? Do you know?”
“Yes,” he said. “I know.”
This was a bizarre conversation to be having in these magical, festive surroundings.
“But you are not going to say,” she said after a minute’s silence.
“No.”
Not yet, anyway.
He had noticed a few narrower avenues branching off the main one. Another of them was just ahead. He needed to give the two of them a chance to recover from this conversation. He had had other plans for tonight. Or other hopes, perhaps. He had never been as confident of success with Lady Jessica Archer as he had pretended to be. And it seemed he knew pathetically little about romancing.
“Come,” he said when they reached it, and he turned her and himself onto the path he had seen.
He was a bit surprised when she did not put up any resistance. He was even more surprised when he, finding that the path was narrower than he had expected and drawing her closer to his side, disengaged his arm from hers to set about her waist, and she made no protest and did not try to put more space between them.
There were fewer lamps strung from the trees in here. The path was not totally dark, but it was dim. The sounds of voices from the main avenue and of music from the rotunda seemed immediately more remote. An illusion, no doubt. He could smell the trees and the earth and foliage in here. He was more aware of nature and less of man-made magic.
“You are not afraid of me?” he aske
d her. It had occurred to him that she might be.
“Why would I be afraid of you, Mr. Thorne?” she asked, the sound of chill hauteur back in her voice.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you do not believe me.”
“I believe you,” she said. “But I do not want to talk any more about that tonight.”
“What do you want to talk about?” he asked her.
“Do you still intend to marry me?” she asked in return, putting emphasis upon the one word.
“I do,” he said.
“I think it had better be soon,” she said.
He was not sure for a moment that he had heard her correctly. But she had spoken clearly enough, and there were no sounds close enough to distract him.
“By special license?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she said. “I think so. You have no idea how my family will fuss otherwise.”
“Over the fact of our marrying?” he asked.
“Oh no,” she said. “They will come around to that. They have clearly deemed you worthy of Estelle, after all. No, Mr. Thorne, they will fuss over the wedding—if they are given half a chance, that is. They will expect nothing less than a ceremony at St. George’s on Hanover Square with all the ton in attendance.”
He winced inwardly. “But do you not want to be fussed over?” he asked her.
“No,” she said. “I want to be married. And I believe you need to be married.”
The conversation between them had taken a bizarre turn after all. Unless he was much mistaken, he had not even asked her to marry him yet. Had he? No formal application to her brother or her mother. No prepared speech. No bended knee. No single rose, presented in person this time.
No romance. Not really.
The path opened up ahead of them to reveal a miniature garden, with a semicircular flower bed on each side, each surrounded by a strip of grass, and each with a wooden seat behind the flowers. There were more lanterns here, all of them a pale pink. It was a little haven of unexpected loveliness. Even Gabriel recognized it as a romantic spot.
