‘Which you should not have eaten because you have the gout,’ Gabriel said with more force than he should have.
Prinny looked down at his plate and cut into more of his ham while he mumbled something under his breath.
‘You did not eat any of the marzipan in front of Olivia, did you?’
Prinny tossed his fork on his plate. ‘Demmit, man, I rule this country and if I want to eat marzipan, I damn well will eat marzipan!’
Gabriel closed his eyes and pressed his thumb against his brow. He counted to ten. When he opened his eyes he caught Prinny’s pointed stare. How was it possible that this man did not realise the danger he was in? He wanted to chastise him like a child. Instead he took a deep breath and composed his voice.
‘You ate all the marzipan.’
Prinny looked away. ‘I might have.’ Digging into the butter with his knife, he looked back at Gabriel. ‘It is only Olivia. And since she already knows I am not afflicted with the gout, what say you I stay at your house? You can protect me there.’
‘No, and why do you believe she knows you do not have the gout?’
‘Well I did eat all the marzipan, and she told me I appeared to be doing quite well when we went for our...’
‘Your what?’
‘Oh, bloody hell, this is ridiculous. I defeated Napoleon, for God’s sake. I went for a walk. In my garden. With your wife. There, I said it.’
Gabriel pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose, praying it would prevent his brain from exploding onto the table. ‘Your gardens are adjacent to the park.’
‘You do not have to tell me that. I’m the one who lives here!’
‘And whose idea was it to go for a walk in the garden?’
‘It was Olivia’s. But in all fairness, the gel is unaware of the danger I am in.’
The hairs on the back of Gabriel’s neck rose and he rubbed them through his collar.
‘I cannot look at these walls for another day,’ Prinny continued. ‘You must find whoever is behind this and put their plans to rest. Olivia believes Nettleford will have lobster cakes at his ball next week. Lobster cakes! I have things to attend to and places I need to be. The world is moving and I am standing still.’ He buttered a slice of toast. ‘At least tell me you are closer to finding out who is behind the shooting.’
‘The man who shot you is dead.’
Prinny’s knife clattered to his plate. ‘Dead? How is that possible? He was being held at the Tower. To my knowledge there was no hanging.’
‘He did not face the gallows. Although there was no blood nor sign of a struggle, it appears he was murdered.’
The colour left Prinny’s face and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. ‘Poison.’
‘We believe so.’
Prinny looked down at his food as one would a gutter rat and pushed his plate away.
‘You are safe here,’ Gabriel tried to reassure him. ‘And if that were poisoned, I assure you, you would be dead by now.’
‘Murdered? But how is that possible when he was being held at the Tower?’
‘I am not entirely certain, but I assure you I will find out.’
Prinny drained his wine and motioned for more. ‘You need to find him.’
‘We will. But for the love of all that is holy, do not leave this house, do not see anyone else and trust no one.’
* * *
Gabriel entered his house frustrated they hadn’t yet uncovered who was behind the assassination attempt. There was unrest up north and in the streets of London. Many people were unhappy with Prinny for the cost of his extravagant lifestyle. The threat could have come from anywhere.
He was about to walk into his study and write a note to Andrew when Bennett gave a discreet cough.
‘Lord Hartwick is waiting for you in the Gold Drawing Room, sir.’
‘The Gold Drawing Room?’ Gabriel echoed, reconfirming the location.
‘Yes, sir. I felt it was the safest place to keep his lordship while he waited for you.’
Striding into the room, he found Hart seated at one of the game tables with a row of cards laid out before him. He was just about to lower the Queen of Hearts onto one of the piles when he spied Gabriel.
‘It’s about time. I don’t know how many more rounds of patience I could play before I grew bored enough to begin searching for hidden passageways.’
This was why Bennett was so indispensable. ‘There are no hidden passageways.’ At least none that he wanted Hart to know about.
Hart lowered the card and picked up a glass of what Gabriel assumed was his finest brandy. ‘Bennett would not allow me to wait in your study, which I believe would have been infinitely more interesting than poking about here. By the way, one of your gardeners enjoys taking a nip from the bottle as he prunes your shrubbery. If Her Grace has noticed a lack of blooms recently, it’s because he is cutting them off and disposing of them along with the dead branches.’
‘I take it this is not a social call?’
‘At this hour? While I do enjoy our amusing conversations, you are correct. I have news. You may wish to lock the door.’
By the excited gleam in Hart’s blue eyes, Gabriel knew the news he had uncovered was of no trivial matter. He took his friend’s suggestion and locked the door before he took a seat at the table and waited for him to continue.
‘Have you determined who was providing the information on Prinny’s whereabouts to Mr Clarke?’ Hart asked, tossing his head to the side to shift a lock of hair out of his eyes.
‘I have not.’
‘Well, I have,’ he said through a smug smile.
Gabriel leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. ‘Who is it?’
Hart sat back in the chair and stretched his legs out. ‘I was at Lyonsdale House recently, when Julian mentioned the wedding portrait of his wife had been completed. Always the polite guest, I asked to see it.’
‘I do not understand what this has to do with the gunman.’
Hart leaned forward, their knuckles almost touching, ‘Because the signature on that portrait matched the handwriting on your note.’ He reclined back again and arched an arrogant brow.
‘You are certain?’
‘I wasn’t at first. Something about the signature looked familiar, but then today I realised where I had seen such handwriting before. Are you still in possession of the note?’
Gabriel nodded.
‘Let me see it and I will prove to you I have found your match.’
When Gabriel returned from retrieving it from his study, Hart spread the paper out on the game table.
‘See here the swirled loop of the “m” and the down stroke of the “j”? I tell you, I have found your match.’
Although Hart was known to have an uncanny memory, Gabriel was not completely convinced. However, this was as close to a lead as he had had since the attempt on Prinny’s life. He had to pursue it.
‘Whose signature is it?’
‘A Mr John Manning of Hanover Square.’
Gabriel’s heart dropped to his stomach and the hair on the back of his neck rose. That man spent time with his wife...with his child.
‘You have grown quieter than usual,’ Hart said. ‘What are you not telling me?’
‘The gunman is dead.’
Hart’s previously casual pose was replaced by one of rapt attention. ‘How is that possible? He was under guard.’
Pushing away from the table, Gabriel stood and walked a few paces in agitation. Spinning back around, he ran his hand through his hair. ‘I do not know. You are certain Manning might be involved?’
‘I tell you, that is the man’s hand. If only you had a painting of his, we could...’ Hart’s gaze bore into him as if he could read Gabriel’s thoughts. ‘Your wife is hi
s patron. Surely there is a painting of his here?’
Dear God, this couldn’t be happening, not again. Never discount the obvious. His father had pounded it into his head. The more he considered the facts, the harder it became to steady his breathing. Olivia had arranged the meeting between Prinny and Mr Owen. She told him not to take the royal coach and that she would take him in hers. Her carriage had the Lyonsdale crest on the side, just as his did. Just yesterday she’d persuaded Prinny to go for a walk outside in his garden where anyone in the park beyond would have had an easy shot at him. And he had heard her discuss Prinny with Manning.
He did not believe in coincidences. He knew first hand anything was possible. His past had taught him that—at a great cost. An icy chill ran through his veins.
If she were part of this, she would be tried for treason and swing from the gallows. He tried to scrub the image from his mind, but it would not go away.
‘Winter, did you hear me?’
He could not do this with Hart present. ‘I will search for one of his paintings. With the collection my wife is amassing, surely you can see it will take some time for me to locate his work.’
‘I have solved the informant’s identity before you did and yet you will not look me in the eye. If he is the person who hired Mr Clarke, you will be able to put the mystery of this assassination attempt to rest. The vile criminal will swing.’
And that was what Gabriel was beginning to fear.
Chapter Thirteen
Once Hart was on his way, Gabriel rang for Bennett. ‘Is Her Grace home?’
‘No, sir, I believe she is at Mr Manning’s studio for her sitting.’
Gabriel closed his eyes and prayed he was wrong. ‘Do you know when she is expected to return?’
‘No, sir, I do not.’
‘Is Colette with her?’
‘No, she was granted the day to visit her mother. I believe Lady Haverstraw is with Her Grace today.’
Gabriel rubbed the ring that had belonged to his father, not at all comfortable with what he was about to do. ‘If she arrives home in the next hour, I need you to keep her from our rooms.’
Bennett did not look pleased and he knew it was taking all of his butler’s control not to say what was on his mind.
‘Do I make myself clear, Bennett?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Bennett replied before Gabriel took the stairs, two steps at a time.
Olivia had mentioned Manning had painted something for her. He paused in the doorway of her bedchamber and knew once he entered, his life with his wife might be changed for ever.
Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle and was met with the faint scent of honeysuckle. He had not been in the room without her in years. The curtains were drawn back, letting the light stream in through the mullioned windows. There were miniature portraits on her dressing table.
That appeared to be as good a place as any to start. He picked up each frame and squinted at the signature on each one. If any of these were painted by Manning, it would be anyone’s guess from the small size of the writing.
He ran his hand through his hair and turned about the room. There was a landscape over her bed and two smaller ones flanking the large one. Who did she say Manning painted?
His entire body froze and his gaze shifted to the fireplace. There it was. Over the mantel was a portrait of Nicholas. His son was sitting on a bench wearing a blue-velvet gown, his arms wrapped around Gabriel’s mother’s spaniel, Caesar. Walking slowly towards it, he found the signature of the artist in the lower-right corner. His stomach dropped when he took note of the distinct curve of the ‘m’.
There was no denying it. Hart was correct. Olivia’s friend was the man who’d supplied the gunman with Prinny’s whereabouts. However, the scrap of paper he held in his hand would not prove a thing in court. They needed to monitor Manning’s movements and hope he revealed his actions.
He knew he should not waste the opportunity to try to find something that might tie Olivia to Manning’s crime. His stomach rolled at the idea.
On the table beside her bed was a stack of books. He went through each one, looking for hidden notes, but found none. Her dressing table held the usual items a woman kept on hand. He checked and found no hidden compartments. Where would a woman hide her secrets?
He entered her dressing room, where just that morning he knew she’d reclined bathing in the warm water he had arranged for her. Even in the early years of their marriage, he had never had a reason to look inside his wife’s wardrobe. Seven shelves of pristinely folded silks, satins and muslins were available for his perusal. How many gowns did one woman need?
Rummaging around the bottom of the immense painted cabinet, his hands touched a wooden box approximately one foot by eight inches. It didn’t take long before he picked the lock. Pausing for a moment, he prepared himself for what he would find. When he lifted the lid, he stopped breathing.
Perched atop a stack of letters that were tied with a red ribbon was the miniature portrait of himself that he had given Olivia shortly after he had asked for her hand. At one time it had resided on her bedside table. Untying the packet, he thumbed through the many letters he had written to her during their betrothal. At the time, he found himself writing to her simply to receive a letter from her in return—a letter he could read over and over again.
She’d kept them. The way she had looked at him these past five years had made him believe she had burned them long ago—probably in a bonfire on one of their estates—or while singing a merry tune, drinking bottles of wine with her friends.
But she had kept them, tied with red ribbon.
There also were pressed flowers and the elaborately designed diamond-and-sapphire brooch he had given to her as a wedding present. He recalled having the brooch reset three times before he was completely pleased with the way it looked. And now it sat in a locked box at the bottom of her wardrobe.
Gabriel placed the contents back inside their wooden tomb and made certain to relock it. Standing up, he surveyed the room again. Going back into her bedchamber, he walked over to her bed and looked underneath. There he found another box. This one was unlocked and held his correspondence with her since Nicholas was born.
There were letters granting permission to order new furniture for the drawing room, his enquiries on the state of Nicholas’s health when he was sick and notices to when he would be leaving town. She’d kept them. But these letters held no love tokens, no gentle reminders of pleasant memories. She hadn’t even tied them with ribbon.
There they sat, the remnants of the last five years of his life—efficient, impersonal and orderly. For five years he’d buried the memory of the morning Nicholas was born. Now he could see her lying in her bed, exhausted. He thought she’d never looked more beautiful. But as he’d kissed her, she’d pushed him away and began demanding he tell her where he had been. He was not about to confess that he had been in a brothel with Madame LaGrange, so he’d said nothing.
Then she began throwing things at him—anything she could get her hands on that was close to her bed. He was so taken aback by this unprecedented outburst that he was stunned into silence.
She told him she had no wish to speak to him or let him touch her ever again. Gabriel was not the type of man to demand conjugal rights of an unwilling wife. So for five years he’d left her alone, waiting for a sign that she had forgiven him. It had appeared in these last few days that she might have found a way to move past his supposed indiscretion. Now that was the least of his concerns.
There was nothing here. He’d looked everywhere and there was no evidence that Olivia had plotted anything with the artist. She considered Prinny a friend. But she had known where he would be the day the shots were fired. Part of him believed Olivia could never intentionally harm anyone. But another part of him knew anything was possible.
* * *
Andrew walked into Gabriel’s study looking like a man who needed to spend a week in bed—and not in the company of a woman. His eyes were glassy and he blinked a few times from the opposite end of Gabriel’s desk as if he was having a difficult time remaining awake.
‘I hope this is important enough to have James drag me here when all I have is a desire to crawl back into bed,’ Andrew said.
‘I take it you had a late night?’
‘Hart ran off and left me to play cards alone with Prinny until sunup. I believe I owe him a decent sum, but I could not tell you for certain since I think I fell asleep in the middle of the last hand.’
‘I spoke with Prinny this morning. He appeared no worse for wear.’
‘Yes, well, I imagine he went to sleep when I left. I, on the other hand, had a meeting with Mr Donaldson of Bow Street, apprising him of the investigation, followed by a meeting with Colonel Collingsworth. Yet again, he offered the services of the Guards should we have need. I had finally fallen asleep, when James came knocking upon my door.’
‘I believe I know who the man behind the assassination attempt is.’
That appeared to have woken Andrew up. ‘How? Is it anyone I would have heard of?’
‘The artist, Manning, supplied Prinny’s whereabouts to Mr Clarke.’ Gabriel’s hands grew clammy as he said it out loud for the first time.
Andrew’s eager expression fell. ‘Are you certain? Olivia’s Mr Manning?’
Gabriel curled his right hand into a tight fist. ‘He is not Olivia’s Mr Manning.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I want to believe she is not involved in any of this, but I never thought our uncle would do what he did. Olivia knew where Prinny would be the day of the shooting. She was the one who told him not to take the royal coach. Hell, she even arranged the meeting.’ He rubbed the back of his neck.
‘If what you are saying is true, she will be charged with high treason. You are her husband. She could possibly implicate you, saying it was done with your directive.’
UNCOMMON DUKE, AN Page 13
