Page 1 of Lord Gabriel’s Undoing

Prologue

London, 1793

Camilla, Duchess of Sherborne, handed the fashion plate she’d been admiring to her modiste, Mademoiselle Binet, and indicated the neckline with a delicate finger. “A little more lace here, I think, or my husband will wonder at me displaying myself for all to ogle. He’s a very jealous man. Although the gown itself is quite exquisite, and very French in design.”

As she was at present in the establishment of an undoubtedly French modiste, who had only recently escaped the Terror in France to set up her new business in London, this was understandable. And also very desirable, especially since Camilla had discovered this delightful émigrée and alerted all her many acquaintances to the skills the woman had brought with her. She was not the sort of selfish lady who would keep a discovery like Mademoiselle Binet to herself, just for a little one-upmanship. No. She liked the woman and delighted in sending business her way.

Her friends had all been equally delighted by her recommendation, as French gowns were of the most popular right now in London. This was even though, or perhaps because, the French Revolution was in full swing and it had been but a few short weeks since poor Queen Marie-Antoinette herself had met her end in the Place de la Révolution. The thought of that poor lady’s barbaric demise brought a shudder to Camilla’s slender shoulders. The small fear that the same sort of revolution could occur here in Britain lurked at the back of her mind, as it did the minds of most of her friends, as they were all members of the British aristocracy.

Mademoiselle Binet, a slight woman of middle years with her graying hair scraped back into a tight bun that served to stretch the wrinkles out of her face, bestowed an ingratiating smile on her most influential client. Without the patronage of the duchess, she was well aware that she would most likely have failed utterly in her attempt to set up her salon anew in this strange city. So Camilla was to be fawned over and gratified in everything she asked for. Whatever it happened to be. And she was always put before the rest of her clientele, however exalted they themselves might be.

The most important thing, though, was that she was to be kept unaware of the other work Mademoiselle Binet and her servants did, for one never knew with a careless aristo like Her Grace, that she might not gossip to the wrong person. For the work that went on upstairs at Mademoiselle Binet’s establishment involved aiding people who had escaped, as she had done, from Paris, often in dubious circumstances. Not the aristos, who, having been reduced to paupers now hung on the whims and good grace of English sponsors, but those deemed criminals by the new French regime, who might also be deemed criminals here in England.

Soho Square, where Mademoiselle Binet had her exclusive salon, was barely a stone’s throw from St Giles, an area of abject poverty surrounded by further streets where the flotsam of successive waves of immigrants had settled. Over a hundred years ago the protestant Huguenots had arrived and set up their weaving shops, and now the Catholic émigrés had come. Little wonder many turned to her for help. She was ideally situated to offer it.

Camilla, quite oblivious to her modiste’s secret life, set down her empty ratafia glass on the small table beside her seat and glanced over her shoulder at Hawkins, her maid, who was standing back against the wall, her hands clasped in front of her and her gaze cast down. Despite being an excellent lady’s maid, Hawkins had never shown any indication that she would like to improve her own somber appearance and was clad in her usual high-necked brown dress, her hair scraped severely back from her plain face. All of this made her look much older than her thirty years, and older by far than her mistress.

By contrast, Camilla, at three-and-thirty, was still acknowledged amongst the ton as one of the most beautiful women to have ever graced the ballrooms of London. She’d been considered ravishing as a debutante, which had given her the pick of all the most eligible of gentlemen. And now she’d matured into a woman with the sort of beauty that would remain with her even when she was old. It had been easy for her to snare the most eligible of all those eager bachelors, and also one of the most handsome. Thomas, 4th Duke of Sherborne, had fallen head over heels in love with her the first time he laid eyes on her, and a wedding had shortly followed. Theirs had been a fairy-tale romance.

However, married life had not turned out to be as easy as either of them had expected, and a full six years had passed before she’d produced the heir Thomas so longed for. Since the happy arrival of young Ambrose, Marquis of Buckland, who was now seven years old, there’d never been the merest hint of another child. And not without much trying on the part of the almost-happy couple. It seemed, however, that they were destined to produce only the one child, so Ambrose was very precious to them both, and more than a little spoiled. Thus he was here in Town with his mother at Sherborne House in Grosvenor Square, rather than left behind at Wentworth Castle, their estate in Dorsetshire. Camilla did not like to let her precious only child out of her sight for long.

“I think that will be all, Mademoiselle,” Camilla said, rising to her feet with all the grace of a dancer. “I trust you will be able to deliver before the ball next week? I know my husband would very much like to see me in this new gown, and the Prince of Wales will be attending, so it’s most important I should look my best.” Part of the reason for disguising her decolletage. She didn’t want Prinny peering down her front. Or at least not more than he usually did.

Mademoiselle Binet bowed her head. “Of course, Duchesse.” Her accent was markedly French still, and she peppered her sentences with French words whenever she couldn’t think of the English equivalent. “I will ’ave one of my girls bring to you your gown in good time. They will commence immediatement. I will say to them that it is the most important of their tasks. To prepare the gown for the ball pour la plus belle de toutes the ladies in Londres.”

Luckily, Camilla had a basic understanding of French from her school days, or this would have been incomprehensible. Luckily, also, this lack of English was considered amongst her friends to be one of the most attractive features of Mademoiselle Binet, giving her establishment an air of genuine Frenchness and thus of being the height of fashion.

“Merci, Mademoiselle,” Camilla said, taking the opportunity to imply she understood more than she actually did. “Come along, Hawkins. We need to pay a visit to my milliners next. I need a new bonnet to replace the one Ambrose so unfortunately sat on yesterday.”

As the part of Mademoiselle Binet’s establishment where she entertained her customers was upstairs, above the workshops where her girls labored over gowns and petticoats, spencers and pelisses, muffs and gloves, Camilla and Hawkins, once back in their own pelisses, gloves, and muffs, had to descend a wide, curving staircase to reach the door onto the street.

Hawkins opened the door and Camilla stepped out onto Soho Square, the cold, wintry air something of a shock after the warmth of Mademoiselle Binet’s cozy establishment. The street was busy, but not crowded, probably due to the chilly spring weather, and those brave enough to be about in it were well wrapped up.

Nowadays, Soho Square was not anywhere near as well-to-do as Grosvenor Square, but it did boast a central garden with a not-very-well-cared-for statue of Charles II. At the moment this square was being crisscrossed by a few nursemaids out walking their young charges, and people like the duchess who were here for some shopping. All of them appeared to be dodging the usual array of street vendors trying to persuade passersby to purchase hot chestnuts, pies, and early fruit.

Miller, the driver of her carriage, had it waiting for her in the street, although not quite directly outside the modiste’s establishment. And young Donald, the undergroom, was already whipping off the canvas rugs that had been preventing her husband’s horses from catching a chill. Thomas was very fond of his horses and always insisted their well-being should come before almost all else. Except, of course, that of his wife and son. He’d cautioned young Donald only that morning to take the rugs as he didn’t like the cold wind.

Closely accompanied by Hawkins, Camilla approached her carriage. And as she did so, she cast a fateful glance towards the center of the square.

A young woman was racing across its center in the direction of the carriage. Not a finely dressed young woman by any means, but her face, desperation etched across it, was not that of a person one could dismiss as uninteresting. And as she ran, her terrified eyes met those of Camilla and something inexplicable passed between them. For some unknown reason, but perhaps due to that momentary wordless exchange, Camilla stopped walking and kept on looking at the woman.

For a moment, the thought that this was nothing to do with her arose. Thomas would have told her the woman had a look of bringing trouble with her and that she should hurry into her carriage and leave her to her fate, whatever it might be. What the ordinary population got up to was no concern of hers. But hadn’t poor Marie-Antoinette thought just that? And look what had happened to her. Wasn’t it her responsibility as a fellow woman to be curious about what this young woman was fleeing from? To help her, perhaps, for she looked for all the world like a person who was in need of immediate assistance.

“Your Grace?” Hawkins said, also turning to look in the same direction as her mistress. Donald straightened up from where he’d been bent over the step. He also looked. Miller, up on the driving seat, wiped a drip from the end of his nose and turned his head to observe as well.

Camilla held up her hand to her servants. “Wait.”

The woman, clutching a bundle of rags to her chest, reached the carriage and darted behind its shelter. Her shoulders rose and fell with her rapid breathing, and her desperate eyes never left Camilla’s. That she feared pursuit was obvious.

Camilla looked across the square, but could see no one who might be chasing the woman. Yet. Then she turned back to face her. She was young, scarcely more than twenty, with thick dark-auburn hair pinned in a tangled mess that might once have been a bun. Tendrils pulled loose by her flight hung down over her pale face, and she went to swipe them out of her large violet eyes with one slender hand. She really was the most arresting young woman Camilla had ever seen, even though mud splattered her plain gown and a tatty shawl covered her narrow shoulders.

It was at that moment that Camilla saw the bundle she was clutching to her chest with her other hand move. A tiny pink hand emerged, clutching with small fingers at the plaid cloth of the shawl.

Camilla staggered back a step. This poor creature was fleeing for her life, and perhaps for the life of her child. And as she looked into those beautiful violet eyes she knew she had to help her. This was a moment that was meant to happen. Fate had brought her to Mademoiselle Binet’s today, and fate had brought this poor woman to shelter behind her carriage with her baby.

She looked back across the square. Two large and disreputable men had emerged from Sutton Street on the far side and were scanning the square. It didn’t take a genius to work out who they were looking for.

She turned back to the woman who was now rocking the baby in her arms. She must be afraid it would cry and give her away. It had a fuzz of blond hair on its head, so similar to Ambrose’s when he’d been a baby that Camilla’s heart contorted with something that might have been longing and was more likely envy.