Page 10 of A Perfect Gentleman

“I was here before when you fled London in tears. I know your devastation at Montclair’s cruelty and how long it took you to recover. I don’t want that to happen to you again.”

“It won’t. I’m not the naïve dreamer I was then. I did recover—and more than that. I built a new life for myself. I am a realist now. I don’t fancy myself in love with Lord Montclair. I don’t expect moonlight and roses and waltzes at midnight. Just a chance at a new life. Of having some part, at least, of what I wanted.”

“You know, I hope, that there are any number of men who would be happy to love you. To have a life with you. Myself included.”

“I know.” She tucked her hand into his arm again. “And don’t think I don’t appreciate the offer. But you are too good a friend, I think, to risk losing you.”

He stifled a sigh. “I would never wish to risk that. You have been a better friend to me than anyone in my life. Without your help I would never have gotten free of your father.”

Abigail smiled. “It wasn’t charity; I made a very good investment with that loan.”

“I’ve done my best to see to that. But still, I will always be grateful to you. And whether it is with me or some other man, I want you to make a good life. Away from Montclair.”

“I could choose someone other than him, it’s true. But it wouldn’t be making a life. It would only be having an affair. I am married to Lord Montclair.”

“Unless you obtain a divorce.”

“I know.” Abigail sighed. “But one marries for life.” She looked up at him, her eyes great pools of sorrow. “At least, that is what I believe.”

Prescott let out a long sigh, too, and patted her hand on his arm. “Ah, Abigail, I fear you are still a dreamer, after all.”

They soon reached the hotel, its entrance brightly illuminated, and Abigail made her way up to her suite. She turned on the gaslight, reflecting that she rather preferred its gentler glow to the much-touted electric lights in front of the hotel. They had not been installed last time she stayed here.

But she didn’t want to think about that time.

She should ring for her maid; it was almost impossible to get out of her corset single-handedly. But she did not do so; she needed a moment to herself before she faced questions from Molly.

The truth was, she wouldn’t know what to tell Molly any more than she had known what to say to David Prescott. Perhaps they were right in their gloomy predictions for a future with Graeme. Certainly there had been nothing in his manner tonight to give her encouragement. However he might have changed in the past ten years, his antipathy toward her remained unswerving.

Abby started across the room. Something crackled beneath her feet, and she looked down. A small square envelope lay on the floor. Molly or one of the hotel servants could have brought it in while she was gone, but they would not have tossed it on the floor. Someone must have slipped it beneath the door.

Curious, she picked up the white square. It was sealed and addressed to “Lady Montclair.” Opening it, she found a single sheet of paper. The message was short and simple: “Do you want to know the truth behind your marriage?”

She stared at the paper blankly. The truth behind her marriage? The words made little sense to her, and she read them over again. What did it mean? What truth? That Graeme did not love her? That was amply clear and had been so since her wedding night. Surely no one could think that would be a revelation to her. That he had married her solely because he needed money? She had known that, too, even before he’d told her how little he wanted to be her husband.

Abby refolded the letter. Why would anyone have sent such a missive to her? And who would have done so?

The secrecy of it—the lack of signature, the hinting without really revealing anything, the way it had turned up on her floor—indicated a certain malevolence, she thought. As the daughter of a wealthy, powerful, and ruthless man, she was not unaccustomed to being the object of jealousy and dislike. But she knew hardly anyone in London, really.

Though she had received numerous introductions and invitations, it was merely because people were curious about the American heiress Lord Montclair had tossed aside. They hoped Abby might provide some titillating entertainment for a party or give them a bit of gossip to pass along. She doubted any of them actually liked her, but she wouldn’t have thought they disliked her enough to try to hurt her.

Except her husband, of course. But she could not believe this letter was from Montclair. It simply wasn’t something he would do. He had been straightforward in his dislike of her. He wasn’t the sort to send mysterious letters suggesting dark secrets.

Besides, it hardly served his purpose. He wanted her to leave London as soon as possible. This note was the sort of thing that would arouse her curiosity. It was more likely to make her stay here than to flee.

Perhaps it was simply a matter of money, someone who knew or thought they knew something Abby would pay to find out. Or it could be a friend of Graeme’s—someone who wanted to punish her because they believed Abby had ruined Montclair’s life.

Or maybe someone who felt her own life had been ruined. The woman whom Graeme had been in love with, for instance. Now, that idea made some sense. Abigail stood at the window, staring sightlessly out at the lights of London, thinking.

She could imagine the dislike a woman could harbor for someone who had taken the man she loved away from her. However much Graeme had not given his heart to Abigail, the fact was that he had married her and was thus lost to the woman he loved. A woman in that position might very well despise Abigail enough to torment her in any way possible, even with something as small as a note that disturbed her evening.

Abigail sighed. Unfolding the little square of paper, she methodically tore it in half and then again, tossing the pieces into the trash. She could not as easily dismiss her thoughts.

She didn’t know the name of the woman Graeme had loved, only that he had preferred her to Abigail. At the time, Abby had not really cared. When she decided to return to London, she had thought that Graeme’s love for the unknown woman had probably died over the years. But what if it had not? Perhaps he had been having an affair with her all these years.

What if Molly and David were right and there was nothing for Abby here? She could not help but wonder if it had been foolhardy to come back. Perhaps she should be content with the life she lived in New York and not risk more heartache.

Abigail looked across the room at the elegant woman reflected in the mirror over the vanity table. She drew closer, studying her hair and face, her dress, her carriage. She was not, she thought firmly, the tongue-tied, dreamy-eyed girl who had walked blindly into marriage ten years ago.