Fallen Angel (2 page)

A most entrancing widow of only six-and-twenty years, she had flaming red hair, a voluptuous figure, and was in general not a woman easily overlooked, no matter what social setting she found herself in. She tended, rather, to draw attention toward herself—fascination on the part of any man in her vicinity, and jealousy on the part of any woman.

Before he could inquire about her, an elegantly dressed clerk approached him, bowed, and informed him in a discreet undertone that a lady was waiting for him in a small private room.

Gabriel did not find her sitting all alone. Besides being attended to by the owner himself, she was enjoying the warm companionship of various and assorted diamond bracelets, emerald pendants, amethyst pins, and ruby brooches.

“Oh, you must forgive me, Gabriel, my love, but I could not wait to begin choosing my present.”

He bent down to kiss her cheek, and his nostrils were assailed by her musky scent, which brought back vivid memories of making love to her in the little house in Somers Town that he had leased for their assignations.

Impatient to be done with the tiresome business of buying her a present so that they could retire to that selfsame house, Gabriel picked up a bracelet and after a cursory inspection, dangled it before her eyes.

Heavy and encrusted with diamonds, it would cost him a packet, but on the other hand, it was designed to delight the heart of even the most rapacious female.

Except, apparently, the lovely widow, who was now looking at it with a tiny frown. “Gabriel, dearest,” she said, standing up and resting her hands on his chest, “you must know how madly I love you, and you are so clever to remember how fond I am of diamonds.” She swayed closer until she was pressing herself against him in a way that caused the jeweler to cough and then turn his head discreetly away.

“But what I would really like for Christmas, my love,” Eleanor said, gazing up at him with coaxing eyes, “is for you to put a ring on this little finger.” Pouting prettily, she kissed the third finger of her left hand and then pressed it against his lips.

All his desire to dally with her for an hour or two in that little house in Somers Town left him.

“In the long run, my sweet, I am sure I shall find the diamonds a better bargain.” Signaling the jeweler, he quickly wrote out a bank draft for the bracelet and left, ignoring the widow’s belated attempts to recover the ground she had lost.

The hack he had hired was waiting for him, and he gave the driver instructions to take him to his house in Grosvenor Square. Settling back against the somewhat grimy squabs, he considered what should be done about the widow Lowndes.

This was not the first time she had hinted that she wished to be his wife, nor had he ever deluded
himself
into thinking she would be content to remain his mistress forever, no matter how satisfying their arrangement might be to both of them.

But at this point, the benefits of continuing the liaison still outweighed the disadvantages. If he replaced Eleanor with someone new, that new mistress—be she lady or opera dancer—would undoubtedly also try to entice him into marrying her.

Since that was the case, it was less effort simply to allow the present arrangement to continue until the widow began to bore him in bed as much as she already did out of bed.

Gabriel’s servants, which he had inherited with the house on Grosvenor Square, apparently shared Lady Ottillia’s opinion as to his duties as head of the Rainsford family. Upon his return from the jeweler’s, they set in motion a campaign to instill in him the proper measure of Christmas spirit, with the obvious purpose being to persuade him to fall in with his aunt’s plans.

Taking his hat, Kirkson casually mentioned that life was enriched by traditions. “For it is traditions that separate us from the lower beasts of the field, m’lord.”

Without bothering to inquire just what traditions Kirkson had in mind, Gabriel mounted the stairs to his room, where Fitch, his valet, was waiting to help him change for dinner. It soon became obvious that turning Gabriel out in proper style was only incidental to Fitch’s main purpose.

Instead of being respectfully silent while Gabriel was concentrating on tying his neckcloth, the valet waxed eloquent in praise of life in the country with its opportunities for hunting and merrymaking, concluding with, “I think you must agree, m’lord, that there is nothing quite as satisfying as bringing in a Yule log and burning it in the fireplace at Sherington Close.”

Gabriel did not agree, but he felt no obligation to enumerate the activities that he found more stimulating and satisfying than watching an oversized piece of wood burn.

Much to his disgust, he discovered that the entire household had apparently been recruited by his aunt. On his way down to the dining room, every housemaid Gabriel passed—and there seemed to be an inordinate number of them lurking about—was humming a Christmas carol.

To add to his irritation, no sooner was Gabriel seated in solitary splendor at the dining table than Kirkson informed him the cook wished to consult with him as soon as possible about the size of the plum pudding that would be needed for Christmas Day.

“I believe that I have had a surfeit of Christmas cheer, Kirkson. You may inform the rest of the servants that they are to cease and desist, because I shall not change my mind.”

All innocence, the butler protested, “But, my lord, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Then I shall explain,” Gabriel said. “The next person who mentions Sherington Close or who alludes to tradition or who says or does anything that might conceivably serve to remind me that Christmas is approaching, will be turned off without a character. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite clear, my lord,” Kirkson said, but although his words were properly subservient, the look he gave Gabriel was not.

With every passing day the rooms at Brooke’s were becoming more sparsely occupied. Given sufficient days,
Gabriel decided the next afternoon, the club might actually become a pleasant place to spend a few hours.

At the moment, however, there were still too many members present, specifically my Lords Marwood and Ibbetson, who pounced on Gabriel the moment he walked through the door.

“Ah, my dear Sherington,” Marwood began with hearty joviality in his voice, “just the man I have been wishing to see. I was meeting with Perceval the other day, and he asked me as a personal favor to do my best to persuade you to take your seat in the House of Lords this coming year. We can always use another staunch Whig of your caliber, don’t you know.”

“Well, you may tell Mr. Perceval that you have followed your orders,” Gabriel said smoothly.

“Then we can expect to see you in Parliament soon?” Marwood asked, a look of growing delight on his face.

“On the contrary, I think it is highly unlikely that I shall be there this year, but you have certainly done all you can do to persuade me,” Gabriel replied.

Marwood’s face became extremely red, but before he had a chance to say anything further, Gabriel adroitly sidestepped him, only to find his way blocked by Ibbetson, a short, pudgy man whose aspirations inclined more toward dandyism than toward political power.

“Now, now, Marwood,” Ibbetson said cheerfully, “can’t you see Sherington and I ain’t interested in listening to a flock of old windbags drone on and on. We’ve got better things to do with our time.”

Mentally Gabriel lifted an eyebrow at the use of the word “we.” Although since his return to England he had encountered Ibbetson at half a dozen social events around London, they were at most nodding acquaintances, and not at all close friends.

In truth, there were but few men Gabriel called friend, and none of them were at the moment residing in England. Here in London, however, there was an unfortunate overabundance of toadeaters, sycophants, and bootlickers who sought out his company virtually every time he set foot outside his own house, and who appeared overcome with delight whenever he deigned to snub them or even when he insulted them quite rudely.

His lack of friends did not disturb him in the slightest, and as for the others who sought to ingratiate themselves, their attempts to manipulate him inevitably worked to his advantage rather than to their own.

He strongly doubted that he could benefit from an association with Ibbetson. But on the other hand, on such a gray day when he had no other pressing business, it might prove amusing to discover what ulterior motive was lurking behind Ibbetson’s smile, which was every bit as false as Marwood’s joviality.

“What did you have in mind?” Gabriel asked, making no particular effort to be genial.

“Thought you might like to play a hand or two of piquet,” Ibbetson said gamely, although Gabriel could see that his cool attitude was making the man more and more uncomfortable.

“Pshaw!” Marwood said rudely, attempting to elbow Ibbetson aside. “Sherington is no more a gamester than he is a politician. I have no idea why he bothered to join the club in the first place since he does not care for deep play.”

Seeing an opportunity to deflate the overly pompous Marwood, who although not old, could definitely be described as a boring windbag,
Gabriel
said, “I shall be delighted to play a game of piquet with you.”

“Told you so,” Ibbetson said with a smirk, and Marwood turned on his heel and stalked away, his displeasure clearly written on his face.

“I must warn you that I have had little experience with this game,” Gabriel said quite mendaciously. If Ibbetson thought him a plump pigeon to pluck, he would find to his sorrow that he had chosen the wrong mark.

“Never you worry,” Ibbetson said, the light of victory already gleaming in his eyes. “This will be just a friendly little game.” He led the way to a small table at the opposite side of the room from where half a dozen other members were playing faro, and then signaled a waiter to bring them a fresh deck of cards.

Gabriel played cautiously at first, not wanting to give his opponent any advantage, but oddly enough, Ibbetson was discarding erratically and overlooking even the most obvious opportunities to increase his score.

Could the man possibly be that inept a gambler? Given the high stakes he had suggested they play for, if Ibbetson were in truth so little skilled with cards, he would doubtless have been locked up in debtor’s prison long ago.

Out of sheer perversity, Gabriel began to let his own game slide, but for every poor choice of discards he made, Ibbetson countered with a worse one. Gabriel won the first game easily, but he still had no idea why Ibbetson was trying so desperately to lose.

It was not until halfway through the third game that Ibbetson revealed the true reason he had wanted Gabriel to win money off him. In a burst of false bonhomie, the little man said, “Do you know, Sherington, I have just had the most marvelous idea. We are having such a good time here, why don’t you come along to Ibbetson Hall with me for the holidays? I’m not having a large party down—just a few close friends. I’ll make sure you enjoy the company. Bound to be more convivial than spending a few weeks with your relatives. No offense, but they’re a stiff-rumped bunch of sourpusses, as you’ve undoubtedly discovered for yourself.”

Gabriel had indeed discovered that, but at the mention of relatives it occurred to him that Ibbetson was also bound to have a relative or two lurking about at Ibbetson Hall. Casting his mind back to the stories he had heard since his return to England, he remembered someone saying that Ibbetson was cursed with not one, but four daughters of marriageable age. And if the gossip was correct, all four were roly-poly little butterballs like their father.

Which meant that Ibbetson was undoubtedly attempting to lure Gabriel into a matrimonial trap by allowing him to think that he would be able to win vast sums at cards if he would but spend a few jovial weeks at Ibbetson Hall.

“My dear Ibbetson,” Gabriel drawled, “if only you had asked me last week. But I am afraid I have already made my plans, and as much as your kind invitation tempts me, I fear I really cannot see any way they can be canceled at this late date. But please extend my regrets to your lovely wife and daughters.”

Ibbetson looked morosely down at his cards. “Didn’t think it would work, but m’wife insisted I try. Told me you’d not been in England long enough to have heard about m’daughters.”

“I heard,” Gabriel said simply.

“Was sure you must have,” Ibbetson said. “They’re good girls, you know. Just a trifle on the plumpish side. They’ll not be best pleased when I show up without you.”

He looked up expectantly, as if hoping Gabriel might still change his mind—might willingly offer himself as a sacrifice.

“As much as I pity your plight, I fear I have not a single altruistic bone in my body,” Gabriel said, and Ibbetson looked even glummer.

The game altered after that, and not with any great subtlety. Ibbetson’s discards became well thought out, and his play was smooth and skillful.

Unfortunately for him, he was not quite the expert Gabriel was, and at the end of the third game, Ibbetson could not completely hide his disgruntlement that Gabriel had managed to take the bait and still avoid the trap.

2

Although outward
ly
o
beying Gabriel’s orders not to mention Christmas, the servants were quick to show their disappro
v
al of him for refusing to fall in with his aunt’s wishes. His dinner that evening was burned, and when he retired for the night, he discovered the fire in his bedroom had—inadvertently, or so the maid claimed—been allowed to go out.