Gabriel fiddled with the shaft of a quill, stroking the barbs first one way, and then back, as mystified as ever about Visel and his unreasoning hatred toward him.
The last thing Gabriel wanted to do was administer a thrashing tomorrow. Not only was it tedious, but the man deserved more than just a beating for what he’d said to Eva and had done—or at least for what he’d tried to do—to Drusilla. But Gabriel couldn’t let his mind roam down that particular avenue. Not unless he wanted to be on a packet to France tomorrow evening.
The truth was that he would have given in to his bloodthirsty urges in a heartbeat if it were not for his mother and sisters—and now his new wife and Samir, of course. But his half brothers were all dead, and the half sisters he’d grown up with were married and scattered across North Africa, lost to him. What remained of his family was here in England. Not only that, but he’d committed himself to Drusilla and owed her a chance at a respectable life. He had no desire to make himself a fugitive—not for a second time in his life. And it would break his mother’s heart if he were banished from England as a murderer. And what of Samir? If none of Fatima’s family claimed the boy, he would need a home and security. Dragging him back to Oran, where there was nothing for either of them, was beyond foolish.
No, he could not kill Visel. And he’d better watch out that he didn’t underestimate the man and meet his own untimely end.
Gabriel tossed the quill onto the desk and stood. He’d go and find Byer and do what he’d told Drusilla: leave her to rest. No doubt she would appreciate his absence and enjoy having the evening to herself and her dream lover.
Chapter 9
Drusilla was pretending to eat dinner—alone—in the cavernous dining room. She had rung for a servant upon hearing her husband depart. The last thing she would do was cower in her room on her wedding night. So she’d ordered dinner to be served in the dining room. And now she was regretting it.
Parker entered the dining room. “I beg your pardon, madam, but Lady Eva is here to see you”
Drusilla lowered her fork. “Right now?” she asked stupidly.
Parker ignored the foolish question and inclined his head.
“I will see her—where is she?”
“I put her in the first-floor receiving room to wait, ma’am.”
She tossed her napkin onto her almost untouched plate and stood. “I’m finished with dinner.”
Eva was waiting in the tiny parlor, examining a watercolor of a horse that hung beside the room’s only window. And she was wearing breeches, a claw hammer coat, a caped driving coat, a mangled neckcloth, and the smallest—and grubbiest—pair of top boots Drusilla had ever seen.
“Eva! Why are you dressed that way? What if somebody should see? I can’t—”
Her friend’s unusual blue-violet eyes flashed. “Gabe went out, didn’t he?”
Drusilla flushed. How mortifying. Was there some sort of town crier who went about London communicating such information? Hear ye, hear ye! Gabriel Marlington leaves his wife alone on their wedding night!
“Yes, he went to his club for dinner. How did you know?”
Eva scowled and ignored her question. “Have you two had a row?”
“No.”
“Then why is he behaving like a nocky boy and leaving you to dine alone on your wedding night?”
This was not a conversation Drusilla wanted to have. “Where do you learn such words, Eva? I can’t imagine—”
“Oh don’t, Dru. Just—” She flapped a hand in wordless irritation. “Just don’t.”
Drusilla sighed, too tired to argue. Instead she strode toward the bellpull. “Fine, Eva, I won’t. Now, why don’t you remove your hat and cloak and take a seat. I shall ring for some—”
“I know when and where the duel will be held.”
Drusilla froze, her hand outstretched but not quite reaching the pull. “What?”
“I found out an hour ago.”
“But how?”
“Drake—he’s Gabe’s valet, you know—came by to see Ellie, one of the parlor maids.” Eva gave her a quick, searching look. “That is how I knew Gabe had gone out for the evening.”
Ah yes, the silent network of servants who lived among them.
“Anyhow, Drake and Ellie are walking out together.” Eva paused, her brow wrinkling. “He is at least fifteen years older than she and so stodgy and boring. I can’t understand what Ellie sees in stuffy old Drake, can you?”
Drusilla gave up on the idea of tea and took a seat beside Eva. “Will you please finish what you were saying?”
“Oh yes—the duel. Well, I was down by the kitchen when—”
“Oh, Eva. You know you should not be eavesdropping.” Her friend had gotten into trouble more than once at school for lurking and listening. It was such an unappealing habit, not to mention Eva had heard unpleasant things about herself more than once. But who was she to lecture her friend on behavior after the letter she had received earlier?
Not that Eva appeared to mind the gentle scolding. Instead of being contrite she laughed. “Gabe calls it Evasdropping.” Her lip trembled and her beautiful face seemed to collapse in on itself. She grabbed Drusilla’s arm with small hands sheathed in York tan gloves. “I am so frightened for him, Dru. I know he’s done this before—but that was different because I didn’t learn about it until after.”
Drusilla knew exactly what she meant.
“I believe he’s more skilled than Visel, but mistakes and accidents do happen and . . .” She swallowed a sob. “Lord, I’m just so afraid for him.”
So was Drusilla, but she didn’t think admitting to her fear would help matters. She opened her mouth to soothe her friend, but Eva was not finished.
“I can’t stand the thought of him being there alone.”
“He won’t be, Eva. He will have Byer with him.”
“Oh, Byer.” She shook her head, dismissing the viscount with barely a thought. “I want to go.”
“What?”
“I want to be there. Do you want to go with me, or not?”
“Eva—”
“What? Why are you ‘Eva-ing’ me and looking at me that way? He is your husband now, Dru. Don’t you care what happens to him?”
“Of course I care.”
“Don’t you want to be there—to know what happens?”
Dru hesitated a moment too long.
“You do—I can see it in your face. I knew you did.”
Drusilla heaved a sigh. “I would like to know what happens.”
Eva squealed and grabbed her, but Drusilla shook away her hands and gripped Eva’s shoulders, giving her a slight shake.
“Listen to me.”
Eva stilled.
“I said I would like to go but I cannot.”
“But . . . why not?”
“I promised him, Eva.”
“You promised him you would not watch his duel?” She sounded understandably skeptical.
“No, I promised I would respect his privacy.”
“But this is not private—everyone in London knows about it by now.”
“That may be true, but that doesn’t mean he wants everyone in London to be watching tomorrow morning.”
“You don’t understand, Dru. Visel is . . . well, he’s been following Gabe.”
“What?”
Eva nodded, her color heightening. “Yes, he’s up to something—something more than just this duel. He’s—”
Drusilla held up a hand. “Wait. How do you know he is following Gabriel?”
Eva stared at her for a long, silent moment and then admitted, “Because I’ve been following him.”
“My God, Eva!”
“I knew you would respond that way. You needn’t worry—he’s never noticed me.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“Because he’s been acting hostile toward Gabe all Season. I thought he might try to harm him. And it turned out I was right, didn’t it?”
Drusilla ignored the quest
ion. “So why didn’t you tell somebody? Why would you come to the conclusion that following him was wise?” She allowed her gaze to travel over her friend. “Is that why you are wearing these clothes? Have you been going about dressed like this? What would happen if your father—”
“I did not come here to discuss what I’ve been wearing or doing. Are you going to come with me tomorrow, or not?” Eva looked remarkably like the terrifying Marquess of Exley, her beautiful features as cold and distant as the Scottish Highlands.
“I told you, I cannot.”
“But he will never know.”
The next half hour saw a repeat of this conversation, but with Eva finding new and creative ways to couch her argument. They went around and around and around.
Eva wasn’t the only one arguing; Drusilla had her own demands.
“You must promise me you will not go, Eva.”
Eva’s derisive laughter told her what she thought about that suggestion.
Drusilla stared at her friend and carefully considered her next words before she released them.
“I will tell Gabriel what you are going to do unless you give me your word you will not go.”
Eva’s jaw dropped, and a series of small, disbelieving sounds came out of her mouth before she leaped to her feet, the hem of her greatcoat swirling around her boots. “You wouldn’t.”
Drusilla’s face was hot and her heart felt as if it were being squeezed by a giant fist, but she could not back down. “Yes, I would.”
“But—but I came here to share this with you. It is a . . . a sacred trust between sisters.”
It was like having a knife twisted in her chest. “I know you came here to share this, but he is my husband, Eva, and I owe my first allegiance to him. Even without asking him, I know he would not want you there. And he would be furious with me if I concealed your plan from him.”
Drusilla had always known Eva had a terrible temper, but she had never been the focus of it before.
“So, you are married now and our friendship is nothing? Is that how it will be with us?”
Drusilla tried to take Eva’s hand, but she jerked away.
“No, don’t try to placate me.” Her mouth twisted into a sneer. “There was a time—only yesterday, I believe, when we were as close as sisters—no, closer, because my sisters and I never shared as much as the two of us have. But now I see that is over. I tell you things in confidence, and you tattle on me.” She barreled toward the door, her billowing coat brushing against a side table and sending a small crystal bowl to the polished wood floor. The sound of shattering glass made her spin around.
“Eva—”
“Don’t worry,” she said, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “I won’t be going tomorrow morning—I won’t force you to betray my confidence.” She paused, her hand resting on the door handle, and then turned, her expression spiteful. “Oh, and since we are now embracing this new code of honesty, I should tell you that Gabe did not go to his club—he went to see his mistress. Or perhaps I should say mistresses as he keeps a lovers’ nest for all three of them.” And with that she was gone, not bothering to close the door, leaving it swaying gently on its hinges.
Drusilla felt as if she’d just been run over by a mail coach. Her friend’s final words rang in her ears. She shook her head. Of course she’d known about his scandalous liaison with the two actresses. But she’d hoped he’d not gone to them tonight. Had she really believed he would end his relationships because he was married? This was what men did. Drusilla’s own father—a commoner and of the merchant class—had kept a mistress, the truth of which had emerged only at her father’s death when Drusilla had encountered the woman, a rather plain, small, mousy female, at her father’s grave. But of course her mother had died long before then, so it was not the same thing at all.
Gabriel, apparently, would not wait for her to die before taking a lover—two of them. Drusilla slumped down in her chair and lowered her head in her hands. Perhaps she should just sleep here tonight? Who would care?
Nobody.
She groaned. No, it was bad enough all of London knew her husband had abandoned her on his wedding night for his mistresses. The last thing she needed was to set the servants abuzz with more pitiful behavior.
Drusilla was so exhausted she could barely raise her feet to climb the stairs. Fletcher was waiting in her bedchamber.
“Ahh, there you are, Miss Dru. I’ve laid out your nightgown.”
“I want my pink flannel.”
“Oh, ma’am, surely not that old thing? Why I—”
“Pink. Flannel.”
Even in her barely aware state, she could register Fletcher’s disapproval. Too bad. The last thing she intended was to get dressed like a sacrificial lamb, only to find there was to be no sacrifice.
* * *
Gabriel had known it would be bad, but he’d somehow not expected it to be this bad. Half the ton—the male half—was crowded into White’s, with more drifting in every minute.
“Everyone is here except Visel,” Byer drawled.
“Good God,” Gabriel muttered, shaking his head. “That is all we would need to make this farce complete.”
The other man chuckled.
“I’m glad you find this so entertaining,” Gabriel snapped.
Byer was as impeccably—if outrageously—dressed as ever, even though Gabriel knew he couldn’t have slept more than a wink last night. It seemed Visel’s second had shown up at Byer’s lodgings not long after Gabriel and the girls departed the ball two nights ago. And, of course, last night there had been the dinner and an evening of revelry afterward.
Yet somehow Byer looked as fresh as a daisy.
“How the devil do you manage it?” Gabriel asked, aware the rest of the room was listening so hard to their conversation the only audible sound was the distant buzzing of a fly.
Byer raised his brows slightly, as if to do more was too much effort. The man had looking bored and lazy down to an art form. But it would be foolish to underestimate him, no matter how foppishly he liked to dress and behave. Gabriel had fenced and sparred with him since the first week they’d met at Oxford, two outcasts thrown together in a bastion of elite snobbery: Byer was a lethal man, a wolf in sheep’s clothing—or at least a wolf in the clothing of a feckless, no-longer-so-young pink of the ton.
Thomas, Viscount Byer, had been born the youngest of four brothers. The Byer family was perhaps the only ton family more notorious than Gabriel’s.
His eldest brother had run off with the Earl of Graythorpe’s wife when Thomas was still at Eton. Although Byer never said so, Gabriel knew he would have suffered dreadfully at the hands of the other boys—especially Graythorpe’s twin sons, who’d been in his same form.
Byer’s brother and Lady Graythorpe had been headed to Italy when their ship ran afoul of the French navy, and everyone on board died.
His middle brother, the next viscount, died less than a month after coming into the title. His death had been even more ignominious than his elder brother’s: he’d been engaged in a horse race—in which both contestants had ridden their mounts backward—and had died instantly when his horse ran into a stone fence. His opponent had suffered only the loss of one leg.
The third Viscount Byer had been neither a libertine nor reckless. He had, however, been something of a gambler. And a very bad one. In the end, he’d taken the coward’s way out of the mess he had made and shot himself in the head with a dueling pistol, but not before he’d lost everything that hadn’t been nailed down or entailed on the viscountcy, leaving Byer, the new viscount, with a mountain of debts.
Byer had been at Oxford when his last brother died—just a few months before Gabriel left to come to London this year. His friend left Oxford after spending almost seven years there, never having actually studied or attended a lecture that anyone could recall. Or really even been there most of the time. Byer had spent more time at his random mistresses’ houses or sponging houses or other, unknown, places tha
n he ever had in the quarters they’d shared.
Since leaving Oxford, Byer had gone about town with his usual care-for-nobody air. But Gabriel was not fooled. His suave, jaded, and sophisticated best friend had lost his heart to Eva years ago—not that his sister seemed to notice. Nor, Gabriel suspected, would she want Byer’s heart—or any other part of him. Eva was a person even more averse to marriage than most men of his acquaintance. She’d known Byer almost five years and viewed him as a brother. He suspected that if she ever fell for a man, it would not be the seemingly lazy, languid, and foppish viscount.
Shouts and yells pulled Gabriel from his musing, and he saw a familiar face pushing through the crowd of onlookers.
Byer sat up straighter in his chair as Visel strode toward them, accompanied by two other men.
“Ah, it would seem His Grace of Tyndale has finally taken an interest in his heir’s activities.”
Something about his friend’s voice made him turn. Byer’s face was hard, his usually lazy smile nowhere to be seen.
“This should be interesting,” Byer said under his breath just before Gabriel got to his feet.
The duke was a very old man—at least in his eighties—and as thin and sharp as a rapier. His blue eyes were clouded with age but his expression was as haughty as a king’s.
The younger of the two men accompanying Visel stepped toward them and bowed.
“Good evening, Endicott,” Byer said.
Geoffrey Endicott—Visel’s second—ignored his greeting, turning instead to the duke. “Your Grace, may I introduce you to Mr. Gabriel Marlington.” His voice was unnecessarily loud.
Before either Gabriel or the duke could respond, Byer chuckled, his sleepy gaze flickering from Endicott to Tyndale to Visel and then back. “My goodness, Endicott—trying your hand at the dramatic arts, are you?”
Endicott flushed, Visel looked bored, and the duke ignored them both and stepped forward, his eyes on Gabriel.
The crowd was frozen—neither servants nor patrons bothering to hide the fact they were openly listening and watching. This meeting—or whatever it was—should have taken place elsewhere, somewhere more private, but Visel, or perhaps the duke, must have wanted it this way.
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