Page 55 of Lord Gabriel’s Undoing

Gabriel’s room was at the back of the house, as far away from the room where Isabel was supposedly napping as possible. Ambrose closed the door and sat down hard on the window seat. “Well? I always know when you’re troubled by something. Spit it out, little brother.” His voice had returned to a more normal level this far from his wife.

Gabriel threw his old hat down on the bed and shrugged himself out of the coat and waistcoat, a somewhat difficult undertaking with only one useful arm. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said, undercover of keeping himself busy. He bent to unlace his disreputable boots, also difficult one-handed. “I might ask you to send Elliott up to assist me in my ablutions. Only having one working arm and hand is very trying.”

Ambrose’s lip curled, but he didn’t budge. “You look most genuine. If I passed you in the street I might not recognize you. Your skills of disguise have improved since last I was on the town with you. It’s only the fact that I encountered you on the stairs that made me know you, or it would have been me shouting out about shabbaroons in the house.”

Gabriel kept on loosening his laces. “Thank you. I take that as flattery.” He rubbed his bristly chin. “A lot of the trick of it has to do with the hat and my being unshaven. No one expects to see a gentleman dressed like this—no one looks at the faces of the poor, do they? So no one is likely to even give me a second glance. You might well not even notice me on the street, I can assure you.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Ambrose said. “Tell me everything. Where’ve you been, for a start.”

“Oh, just exploring with a friend. You know how I like to go unnoticed.”

“And your friend was in disguise as well?”

Gabriel nodded. He had at least kept his own stockings on under the boots, but as he fancied a bath, he pulled these off too. “I’m going to ring for a bath now, if you don’t mind. So you can go and accept those invitations for both of us. I’m sure Lady Radnor will be delighted.” He slid his braces off his shoulders and untucked his shirt. “Do you think Isabel will want to go with you? Think what fun it would be to have both her and Lady Matcham in the same room fighting over you. Knowing your luck, Isabel will pop your heir out on the ballroom floor.”

Ambrose sighed. “Isabel wouldn’t fight over me. She’d just despise me more. If I’d known how she was going to turn out, I’d never have married her. You beware, little brother, because women who are after you in marriage are very good at hiding what they’re really like. You mark my words. Once they have a ring on their finger they change completely. The sweet little thing you fancied yourself in love with turns overnight into the nagging harridan who doesn’t want you to have any fun.” His face was the picture of gloom.

Gabriel, now standing in just his disreputable trousers and loose shirt, tugged on the bell rope with his good hand. The effect of the laudanum was wearing off and his bed was looking more and more comfortable, but not while he was dirty. “I’m getting undressed now for my bath. So you’ll have to leave. I suggest you go and pretend to Isabel that you have sympathy for her condition and that she shouldn’t come to the Radnor’s ball for fear of her health being damaged.”

Ambrose gave a shudder but moved to the door. “You still haven’t told me what’s bothering you.”

Drat the man, he was like a terrier with a rat. But Gabriel was experienced in dodging his brother’s questions. He had plenty to distract him with. “And you’d better hope Isabel doesn’t spot little Ellen the kitchen maid vomiting first thing in the mornings.”

He’d hit the mark there. Ambrose’s face flushed with hot color.

“Thought so,” Gabriel said, with a grin. “There goes another one.”

With an annoyed harrumph, Ambrose departed, his inquisition forgotten.

Chapter Twenty

“Of course we will attend Lady Radnor’s ball, Phoebe,” Aunt Fanny declared, fixing her niece with a gimlet stare. “You cannot possibly turn down such a prestigious invitation. I certainly cannot, and it would be the height of ill manners if I were to only bring Matilda with me. Look.” And here she waved the offending invitation under Phoebe’s nose. “You are specifically mentioned on the invitation. I’m sure Lady Radnor is well aware of your status as an heiress, as she possesses at least two sons who are not yet married. And, as you know, I’m determined to get both of you girls married off this Season. Just think how lovely it would be for you to become sisters-in-law as well as cousins.”

The horrible thought of Aunt Fanny joining with the as yet unknown Lady Radnor for a spot of heavy-handed matchmaking curdled Phoebe’s insides. “If I were ill, it would be bad manners to take me with you and risk everyone else also becoming ill,” she said, from her position in the window seat overlooking the garden at the rear of the Hill Street house.

It was raining and the view was not impressive.

Even the early daffodils and crocuses seemed to have given up trying to look bright and cheerful. From their drooping heads it seemed they were emulating her feeling of despair that Gabriel had firstly just abandoned her to Cecilia after their adventure in the rookery, and secondly not deigned to call upon her on either of the days since. More and more she was inclining to the conclusion that her very much heat-of-the-moment proposal had been met with shock and disgust rather than pleasure. He must have decided he didn’t like such a forward young lady as her at all and never wanted to see her again.

She’d been trying hard not to think about it, but could feel unwelcome tears welling in the corners of her eyes. It was all very well to indulge in tears of sorrow in the privacy of one’s own room, but she must not do it in public. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands in the effort to stop the tears falling, and clenched her teeth.

“If you were truly ill I would send your apologies,” Aunt Fanny said, her firm tone suggesting she’d completely missed Phoebe’s distress. “But you are not. So we are going. We are all going, and you will make the best of it and be polite to all the young men who will no doubt wish to dance with you. Your fortune will make you a most popular dance partner.” She paused. “And you will endeavor not to trample their feet into bruised lumps of flesh. In fact, to that end I have procured the assistance of a new dancing instructor for you girls. He will be here tomorrow and you, Phoebe, will try your best to learn to be less clumsy.” She heaved a deep sigh. “If I didn’t know you better I’d swear you did it on purpose to put young men off.”

Mattie, who’d been diligently stitching at a handkerchief, looked up. “But cheer up. Once you’re married you won’t need to dance again if you don’t wish to. You’ll be stuck at home producing little heirs for your husband while he goes off and dances with all the pretty debutantes and gets himself a mistress.”

Aunt Fanny’s face contorted in a mixture of shock and anger. “Matilda Nicholson! How dare you speak like that. Like a…like a hoyden. Have I not brought you up to be more polite? To know your place and what you are most certainly not allowed to say?” She paused in her tirade. “And how do you even know what a mistress is?” Her voice had risen steadily to this final crescendo of accusation. Thank goodness, as this would distract her attention admirably. Had Mattie done so on purpose? Phoebe liked to think she might have.

Mattie stuck out her lower lip in defiance. “Of course I know men have mistresses, Mama. Do you think I walk around with my head in the clouds? You can’t deny that it’s true, can you? Look at the Marquis of Buckland. His wife is about to produce his first heir, but he’s gadding about Town with that awful Lady Matcham on his arm. And he was most flirtatious with me the other day at Sherborne House, while you were engaged in conversation with the fat old Duke of Hexham.” This last was said with a hint of spite. Did Mattie resent the interest the old duke was now showing her mother? After all, Phoebe had suspected Mattie of having designs on becoming a duchess and now it looked as though her mother might pip her to the post.

Aunt Fanny’s outraged face contorted wordlessly.

Mattie managed to flounce even in a seated position. “Don’t think that just because I’m supposed to be a sweet and innocent debutante I don’t see what’s going on under my nose. And the Marquis isn’t the only one. I daresay most of the men attending Lady Radnor’s ball will have mistresses tucked away somewhere, even though they’re paying court to us debutantes and hinting they want us as wives. We all know a wife doesn’t have as much fun as a mistress.”

Aunt Fanny gave a strangled gasp and her fan leapt into operation. She batted it back and forth in front of her face with such rapidity Phoebe felt the waft of it over by the window. “Oh my goodness,” she wailed. “I think I’m going to faint from shock. You should not know such things, Matilda, and if you do, as it appears, then you should never speak of them. I’ve half a mind not to take you to Lady Radnor’s ball out of fear you’ll say something shocking and disgrace me. What would people say if they knew my daughter was such a…such a hoyden. Where are my smelling salts?”

“In your reticule, Mama, where you always have them.” Matilda met Phoebe’s astonished gaze and winked. Aunt Fanny, now delving in her reticule in a state of panic, must have missed that. “The Marquis of Buckland asked me to dance at Lady Caithness’s ball, don’t you remember? I don’t recall you objecting, even though you know he’s married and should not be dancing with debutantes. Perhaps he’s looking to exchange his old mistress for a new one.”

Aunt Fanny fluttered her fan, her cheeks ashy pale beneath her powder. “Mark my words, young lady. You are most certainly forbidden from dancing with him at Lady Radnor’s, or with any other married man. If he asks, you will tell him your card is full, or you have sprained your ankle, or…or something like that.”