She walked over to where her Aunt sat and squeezed her hand, with what she hoped conveyed all the gratitude that she felt for the past four years of trying to help her write her own love story, even when she hadn’t wanted to.
“I must find Marguerite,” Lydia said much to Tabitha’s dismay, after a misty-eyed moment had passed, “I need to start packing.”
The lady’s maid was in her bedchamber on the third floor, lying prostrate on her small wrought iron bed, a small white hand pressed against her brow.
“Are you ill?” Lydia asked with concern, standing at the open doorway.
“Oui,” Marguerite gave a plaintive sigh, “Zer ees so much work to be done, that eet gave me a migraine. You ‘ave so many zings Lady Lydia, that I will ‘ave no time to pack my own.”
“Where are you going?” Lydia asked with confusion. Her Aunt had assured her that Marguerite would remain employed, taking on the role of Tabitha’s second lady’s maid.
“Why, with you,” Marguerite sat up, her face wearing a look of outrage.
“But I’m going to Ireland,” Lydia stuttered, she had not expected this, “It rains an awful lot Marguerite - and you know what that does to your hair. And besides, there are no balls, no towns or even any shops in Galway. It’s not Dublin… You’d be terribly bored.”
“Non,” the French girl shook her head stubbornly, “If you leave mademoiselle, then I leave. When I was a child my father ‘ad a dog; a German Shepard. Zis dog, she follow my father everywhere. When ‘e died, ze dog would not come ‘ome, she did not want a new master. She sat beside ‘is grave until the day that she herself expired. If you are insisting on zending yourself to ze grave in Ireland, zen I will come too and sit beside you until you or I die. I am French, we believe in loyalty.”
This was all said in a very matter of fact tone, that brokered no argument. Marguerite’s sentiment touched Lydia, as well as slightly alarmed her that the girl equated her return to Ireland with death.
“Thank you, Marguerite,” Lydia said, humbled by her speech. “And I hate to ask anything else of you, but I can’t leave without finding my miniature.”
The small silver cased portrait had haunted her dreams the night before, she felt as though someone was holding it or keeping it from her, and it was making her most anxious indeed. The last time that she remembered having it was on that disastrous trip to Carmen’s; she had too much to do today to be able to slip off to Covent Garden unnoticed, but Marguerite…
“Alors,” the French girl rolled her eyes when she heard Lydia’s request. “Fine, I shall go. But if she puts a curse on me, I shall expect a rise in my salary.”
“Oh, thank you Marguerite,” Lydia breathed, a weight lifted from her shoulders at the thought that she would soon be reunited with her most precious possession. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Well,” Marguerite smiled innocently, blue eyes dancing mischievously beneath her thick lashes. “Zer is an awful lot of packing left to do…”
Chapter Fifteen
Lord Sutherland had woken with a sense of purpose; he would visit with Lydia and explain why he had attended the theatre with Kitty, then he would drop in on Bernard Gives, and tell him his suspicions about Count Zitelli. Then he would visit Bond Street, purchase a diamond the size of his head and propose to Lady Lydia Beaufort. If she bludgeoned him to death with said giant diamond, then so be it, as he rather felt he deserved some sort of punishment for the hurt he had caused.
Dressed and dandified, he set forth for Mayfair, only to discover that Lydia was Not At Home.
“Is she not at home literally, or just not at home to me in particular?” he asked the ancient retainer who opened the door. Then repeated the question three times, each time getting louder and louder, until at last he was shouting and, finally, the butler understood him.
“Ah,” the butler said, the deep marionette lines around his mouth creasing even further as he frowned. “She’s actually not at home right now my Lord, but when she is at home, I’m told she won’t be at home to you. If you understand me.”
Gabe scowled, he understood him completely.
“Any idea where she’s gone,” he bellowed into the old man’s ear.
“Can I sing you a song?” the old man repeated, bewilderment written on his lined face.
“No,” Gabriel near roared, “I said. Any. Idea. Where. She. Is. GONE?”
“Really Lord Sutherland,” the Dowager Duchess arrived in the entrance hall as Gabe’s shouts echoed off the double height ceilings. “There’s no need for all this noise, it’s unseemly.”
“My apologies your Grace,” Gabe muttered, his face flushing. There was little resemblance between the fair mother and her darker son, but the same haughty air of command followed the Dowager Duchess everywhere like it did the Duke, leaving Gabriel feeling like a naughty child in her presence.
“I was just trying to ascertain, where exactly it is that Lydia has gone,” he continued, adopting what he hoped was a charming smile. “I need to apologize to her, I seem to have upset her.”
“You did,” Tabitha gave him a frosty glare as his notorious charm fell flat. “You’ve upset her so much, that she declared she would not be at home to you if you called, if you dared to show your face this morning.”
“I’d gathered that much already,” Gabe replied dryly.
“And even worse,” Tabitha continued, ignoring his remark, “You’ve upset her so much that soon she won’t be at home to anyone. She’s leaving for Ireland tomorrow.”
“Leaving?” Gabe parroted, “Ireland?”
“Yes, and yes, Lord Sutherland,” Tabitha said with a sniff. “I hope you are pleased with yourself, and that your evening with the actress was worth it.”
“That’s precisely the point!” Gabe exclaimed, eager for someone to hear of his innocence, “I wasn’t there with Miss Marnell in that way, I was just with her so that I could get into the theatre. Cymbeline was completely sold out your Grace.”
“A Shakespeare fan are you, my Lord?” Tabitha questioned icily.
“Well not exactly, but I can explain,” Gabriel replied flustered; the woman standing before him was apparently where Lydia had learned her icy disdain. He was near trembling in his Hessians from the malevolence of her gaze. “I just need to know where she has gone - please, your Grace, I must say sorry to her.”
The look on his face must have been piteous, for Tabitha heaved a sigh so weary, so deep, it was as though she had been holding it in for decades.
“She has gone to visit my daughter in law and her new second cousin.”
“Wonderful” Gabe smiled broadly, the Blackmore’s London home was only a few minutes ride away, he would be there before the clock struck noon. “Thank you, your Grace.”
“You’re welcome,” Tabitha said, making to close the door.
“Your Grace?” Gabe asked, just before the door slammed, his face wreathed with confusion. “I always thought that your cousin’s child was your first cousin once removed, and not your second cousin?”
“Oh, just leave, my Lord!” Tabitha cried, throwing her hands in the air, and leaving the startled butler to close the door on the Marquess.
Gabe mounted his steed and cantered through the busy London streets, until he reached St. James’ Square - which was where his own home was, though he tried not to feel annoyed that he had made the trip to Mayfair for nothing.
“Is the Duchess at home?” he asked the butler, showing him his card. He waited patiently outside, while the far more sprightly servant that the Blackmore’s kept, went in search of his Mistress.
“Lord Sutherland,” Isabella Linfield, Duchess of Blackmore, came out herself to greet him. “Why this is a surprise.”
Gabriel smiled; it probably was a complete and utter surprise for the Duchess, for they had barely exchanged two words in all their lifetime.
“Your Grace,” he gave a short bow, “I am so sorry for the interruption. I was told that Lady Beaufort was here with you, it’s imperative
that I speak with her.”
“Oh,” Isabella looked genuinely dismayed for the misfortune she was about to impart, “I’m afraid that Lady Beaufort has already left, my Lord, just ten minutes before your arrival.”
Gabe bit back a curse, and he saw that the Duchess had recognized the words that had been about to fall from his lips and she smiled.
“I’m sure if you hurry, you shall catch up with her,” she offered sympathetically, her eyes curious. Perhaps she was imagining a lover’s quarrel, Gabe thought with amusement, well she would be right. Only this quarrel would end on English soil, and not in bloody Ireland.
“My thanks, your Grace,” Gabe bowed low, and allowed the butler to open the door so that he could return to his horse. He had just stridden across to the railings of the gated park at the centre of the square, where Eros, his midnight black stallion was tethered, when a servant from his own home came running over.
“Oh goodness,” Mrs. Wilkes, his head-housekeeper gasped, clutching her ample bosom as she struggled to breathe following her dash across the square. “It’s you, I knew that was Eros tied up there. Thank goodness you have returned my Lord.”
“What is it?” Gabe asked, alarmed by Mrs. Wilkes urgency, and the fact that she had broken out into a run. Mrs. Wilkes never exerted herself, if it was not needed, as her pleasantly plump figure showed.
“Your sister, my Lord,” Mrs. Wilkes pointed towards his home, her face still red. “’Tis your sister.”
Caroline?
Not bothering to hold back his swears this time, Gabe dashed across the square, dodging carriages and horse riders as he ran towards his home.
As he arrived inside the three story, double fronted house, he distinctly heard the sound of plates being smashed. It sounded like there was a Greek wedding going on in the dining room.
“Caroline,” he called in alarm, racing toward the source of the noise.
Inside the twenty-foot-long dining hall, he found his sister picking up plates from the table, which was always laid in case anyone called an impromptu banquet, and throwing them on the floor in rage. Her anger, and thankfully not the plates, was directed at her husband Bernard Gives, who stood wringing his hands in the corner.
“Caroline,” Gabriel called, alarmed to see his usually calm sister so overwrought, “What on earth is going on?”
Caroline halted her destruction at the sound of her brother’s voice, and stood stock still, a china side plate still clutched in her hand.
“What’s going on,” she said, in a very dignified voice, “Is that my husband is denying me the only thing I have ever wanted in life.”
“Oh,” Gabe faltered, and glanced at Bernard quizzically. He had no idea what his sister was speaking of. “And what’s that?”
“A child,” Caroline said simply, and at her words her husband flushed red and began to stutter.
“You must tell your sister that what she wants is impossible,” Bernard, a man of five and forty with a neat moustache, turned to Sutherland, his eyes appealing for him to intervene.
“I don’t tell my sister to do anything,” Gabe retorted, which was true. Also, Caroline was still clutching the China plate with rage, her knuckles white from the pressure she was exerting. Bernard might not know it, but Caroline had a ruddy good aim when she was so inclined, and Gabe had no intention of giving her the inclination.
“Why is it so impossible Bernie?” Caroline asked softly, as though Gabriel - who felt as though he was missing a piece of the jigsaw - was not there.
“It will cause you undue scorn and gossip,” Bernard replied, in an equally sotto voice, his face determined. He would not back down from whatever his stance was, on the situation that Gabriel didn’t fully understand.
“What the blazes is going on?” Gabe interjected, tired of everybody speaking in riddles. This nonsense - and he sensed it had something to do with Bernard’s illegitimate child - would not be solved until everyone spoke their mind.
“I sired a bastard,” Bernard said simply, looking at Gabriel apologetically, “Years before I met your sister, I hasten to add.”
“I know that bit,” Gabe admitted.
“So does half of London, it seems,” Bernard said, somewhat ruefully. “Your sister thinks that since it is all out in the open that the boy should come and live with us. I’ve told her that it is impossible - she’ll be the subject of gossip and ridicule. Edward is perfectly happy in the boys’ school that I placed him in, in Sussex.”
“Oh,” Gabriel was momentarily stunned into silence. He felt shame for thinking that Caroline had simply fallen out with Bernard for fathering the boy; of course, his big-hearted sister would want to take care of him. He saw the handkerchief that she had embroidered in his mind’s eye - Edward - it all made sense now.
“I don’t care about scorn and gossip,” Caroline interrupted them, flinging the plate she held in her hands to the floor in annoyance. It smashed into tiny shards when it broke, which, Gabe thought wryly, was supposed to be a sign of very good China.
“Every day of our marriage,” Caroline continued softly, addressing her husband, “Every day, Bernard, I have prayed for us to be blessed with a child. And now God has seen fit to drop one on our doorstep, and you won’t let me love him, because you are too afraid of people’s gossip.”
Her last words echoed in the huge dining room, leaving Bernard and Gabe standing mutely as each digested what Caroline had just said. Gabriel felt more than a trifle uncomfortable, he had inadvertently become involved in a very private matter, but if needs be he would support his sister, for she was right. Caroline would love this Edward boy as if he were her own, and the poor lad would know a warm home and not just a boarding school.
“I can’t ask you to do that Caroline,” Bernard protested weakly, “I can’t ask you to love a child that is not yours.”
“But I already love him,” Caroline said softly, “For he is half of you, and I love you Bernard.”
Gabriel affected interest in the intricate plasterwork on the ceiling, as his sister and her husband fell into each other’s embrace, with much snuffling and wiping away of tears.
“Well,” he coughed subtly after five minutes of this had passed, “I’m glad that’s all sorted then.”
Bernard and Caroline pulled apart, the former looking slightly embarrassed, the latter glowing with happiness.
“Seeing as you’re here B,” Gabe continued, sensing that if he didn’t speak his piece now, he’d never get the chance. “I wondered if I could have a word with you about the Viceroy business…”
Bernard looked at him sharply, his inner politician awoken.
“What do you know about the assassination plot, then?” Bernard asked seriously, once the pair had retired to Gabe’s library.
Gabriel poured them both a small snifter of brandy. He handed one to his brother in law, before raising his glass in toast, and throwing the amber liquid back in one satisfied gulp.
“I know as much as Blackmore told me,” he said honestly, seating himself on the leather Chesterfield and indicating for Bernard to sit opposite him. “And then Amberford happened to mention that the man I suspected of being involved, Count Zitelli, was in fact one of your prime suspects.”
“Amberford?” Bernard stood up and began pacing back and forth on the oriental carpet. “How the ruddy-hell does Amberford know anything about all this?”
“Well,” Gabe hesitated, this wasn’t the reaction he had hoped for. “He said that you had instructed him to keep watch on Zitelli. Amberford said that Zitelli was meeting with conspirators, and when I went to spy on him, I saw him in the company of a Signor Mancini. It all looked very suspicious.”
Bernard gave a snort of annoyance that called to mind the sound of an irritated horse.
“Signor Mancini is the man who brought the plot to our attention,” Bernard said with exasperation, “I would no more suspect him than I do you, Gabriel.”
Gabriel paled; Amberford had lied to him, but why? The p
enny dropped and it must have shown on his face, for Bernard chortled.
“I can’t say I admire your tactics Gabe,” the politician said, rubbing his hands together with glee, “But you seem to have inadvertently smoked out an actual suspect. Amberford was never told of the assassination plot, his mother is Italian - he was thought too risky to be trusted.”
“And Count Zitelli?” Gabe asked, grasping at straws, there had to be something fishy about the Count.
“That pompous idiot,” Bernard rolled his eyes, “He’s notorious on the continent for running from his debts. In fact, the ambassador asked me to send word to every bank in England to blackball him. He was turfed out of his accommodation just this morning, as I hear it. Hasn’t got a penny to his name. The ambassador said he’d heard a rumour from a Mr Mancini, that Zitelli was trying to secure financing on the back of a supposed engagement to some heiress. Any idea who she is Gabe…Gabe?”
Bernard trailed off as he realized that he was speaking to thin air, for the Marquess of Sutherland had every idea who the heiress might be.
Lydia, he thought angrily as he stormed from the house, the blighter thinks he’s going to marry Lydia.
Chapter Sixteen
Marguerite returned from Covent Garden, a little before three. Lydia, who was wrestling an assortment of hats, bonnets, and turbans into her trunk, stood up eagerly as the lady’s maid entered the room.
“Did you get it?” she asked excitedly, not noticing Marguerite’s downcast expression.
“Non,” Marguerite shook her head, anger written on her delicate features. “Ze witch says that you must fetch it yourself. And she wants to be paid for keeping eet safe.”
Lydia rolled her eyes; of course, Carmen expected some sort of fiscal remuneration for handing over a lost object.
“Did she say how much?” Lydia wondered, reaching for her reticule to see how many coins she had in her purse.
“Five pounds.”
“Five pounds?” Lydia echoed; Carmen must have looked inside the silver case and recognized its worth. Well it’s emotional value at least, for no one else would have any interest in the small portrait.
A Lady Like No Other: A Regency Romance (Regency Black Hearts Book 3) Page 12
