Kate Noble (32 page)

Gail let out a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding. But before they could regain the pace of the other whirling couples, Max abruptly pulled her off the floor and to an innocuous corner shaded by a particularly low-hung bough of roses.

“What did he say to you?” Max loomed over her, so close, so intense, Gail’s mouth went dry.

“He…he said he wanted to meet me.”

“Why?”

“He confused me with Evangeline.”

Swearing under his breath, Max demanded that a wide-eyed Gail recount the whole of her conversation with the Earl. She did so, judiciously editing out the Earl’s insight to her own feelings. She told herself such information served no purpose, but secretly knew she was protecting her own heart.

As Max listened to her finish the careful speech, his jaw clenched tighter.

“And after he called you a fool—he left,” she finished.

“Nothing new there,” Max growled.

Tentatively, Gail reached out a hand, resting it lightly on his arm.

“Your father…he’s not such a bad man.”

Max shuddered a little, recoiling at her words as if struck.

Gail braved her way further. “It seemed to me he just wanted to know his son’s choice of wife. He may be a bit dictatorial, but I think…I think he cares for you.”

“No. No!” Max yelled, causing no small amount of turned heads. Only Gail’s hand on his arm kept him from stalking off. Fury and panic read clear as day in his green eyes.

“Don’t dare take his side. He cares about me only as an extension of a name he refuses to give up control of. You are one of the few people who know…He did this on purpose. He approached
you
on purpose. He’ll try to manipulate you and through you, me. You cannot trust his motives. So don’t you dare feel for my father, because God knows I don’t.”

Unaware he was ranting, unaware of the tears that swam in front of Gail’s eyes, Max pulled his arm free of her grasp. Music and laughter continued around them as long moments passed, Gail’s heart cracking not because of Max, but rather for him.

“If you just talked with him…” she tried again valiantly, futilely. But Max backed away from her outreached hand as if it were diseased.

For a moment he looked as if she had hit him, hurt him. But then eyes hardened, and he allowed his spite to flow in low menacing tones.

“You talk and you talk and you talk, but you never listen, you foolish little girl. No wonder you were such a disaster all your life. You cannot mend fences that have been blown to splinters. I don’t give a bloody damn about my father. He can rot in hell for all I care. And you can…” He paused for breath and faltered.

He had her backed against a wall—Gail was not too proud to admit that she was slightly frightened. His face was a deep red, his muscles tensed to a snapping point. His brow was drawn down into a menace, but slowly, slowly, Gail saw horror and pain dawning over him. He let out his steam in one long hiss.

“Blast,” he finally breathed, before abruptly walking away.

Gail stood for some moments in shock, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall. She had no idea his father had burned him this badly. She was quite certain Max didn’t either. As she brought her hand to her flushed cheek, she took a surreptitious peek from behind the bough of flowers. A few discreet nearby heads turned away quickly, but Gail couldn’t bring herself to care. She was mostly surprised to find that the dancing, the laughter, the music, all continued.

Nothing, and everything, seemed to have occurred.

After a quick trip to the powder room, Gail found her way back to her circle of friends, ready to laugh and feign happiness until she could leave without giving offense, in approximately an hour. If she managed to tear her hem or stub her toe, she could escape in possibly half the time. She was just about to make an accomplice of a nearby chair, when Count Roffstaam approached.

Politely extracting her from Lilly Pickering and Mr. Belling, the Count pulled her to one side.

Gail was rather tired of being pulled from place to place.

“Zat vas a very short valtz,” the Count said, watching closely as Gail worried a lock of hair.

“Count Roffstaam, I apologize if Lord Fontaine and I did not demonstrate the dance properly for you,” she began tiredly. The waltz was the last thing on her mind right now.

“May I offer advising?” the Count asked. At her sullen nod, he continued. “My vife and I”—he nodded toward the Countess’s tall pink form across the room—“fight like bears. But, never are we letting arguing go without the sun.”

Momentarily befuddled, Gail asked, “Do you mean you never let the sun go down on an argument?”

“Ya, ya.” He nodded excitedly.

“But Max…Lord Fontaine and I do not, er, have a relationship of that nature.”

The Count stared baldly at Gail until her cheeks burned with the rightness of his assumption. As she looked to her toes, the Count took Gail’s hand between his two.

“My country may not understand the waltz,” he said, consolingly, but with surprisingly little accent, “but they understand each other. Two people must mend before sleeping. Go and offer the apology.”

“But Count Roffstaam,” Gail replied, tired but resolute, “it is he who owes me an apology. Of that I’m certain.”

The Count leaned in conspiratorially and whispered.

“Then go and be there to receive it.”

HE’D
be damned if he apologized, Max thought as he downed a third glass of whiskey. He sat alone in Mr. Holt’s private library, aware of the lull of music and laughter that went on just beyond the huge mahogany doors.

He’d poisoned her, was Max’s only panicked thought. She spoke in defense of his father, and that was as damning a betrayal as Brutus to Caesar. Even as the pain of it sliced through him, he remembered, cringing, the look of wide-eyed fear on Gail’s face.

She’d never forgive him, anyway. He poured a fourth. He’d been so bloody mean—as mean as his father on his worst day. So there was no point—he was unforgivable.

The only bright side of having Gail hate him was that she would never speak to him again. Max chuckled a raw, pained laugh. How low had he fallen when
that
was a bright side?

He was about to enjoy the fourth glass when the library doors opened, and on a flood of music and chatter, Will Holt entered the room, a small scrap of paper crumpled in his hand and a grave expression on his face.

“Fontaine, here you are.” As Will started toward him, his eyes fell to the bottle at Max’s side. “God—you’ve…you’ve heard, haven’t you?”

“Heard what?” Max slurred, again raising the glass to his lips. Will stayed his friend’s hand.

“Fontaine…Max. You may want to be sober for this.” Will gently removed the glass, bringing a bewildered Max’s attention to his face.

“Goddammit, Holt. I’m in here trying to drown my sorrows, and I bloody well can’t do that without whiskey.” Max reached for the glass, but Will held it out of reach.

“Fontaine! Damn it all, stop!” Will yelled, trying to hold the whiskey and hold him steady at the same time. “Max! Your father died!”

Everything stopped.

He went absolutely still. All the noise in his head, all other thoughts, stopped. Ceased to exist. The world had halted on its axis, leaving Max the only one turning, dizzy. Will held out the crumpled bit of paper to Max, who took it dully, automatically.

Max looked at the writing, not really seeing what it said, not able to make out the meaning. He held it for some minutes, as the words
Father
and
expired
finally registered in his brain. Max looked up to Will.

“I’m sorry,” his friend ventured softly. But as Max met his eyes, the bubble of laughter that escaped Max’s throat cracked through the air like a whip.

“Nothing to be sorry about, old chap,” Max said, the cynicism dripping with each word. “I just inherited an Earldom and my freedom with one blow.”

Will cringed. He didn’t see the piece of paper clutched in a fist closed so tightly it shook.

In fact, only one person noticed that white-knuckled fist.

In his haste to reach Max with the news, Will had neglected to close the library doors. Gail, sent on her quest by the Count, had located her quarry. What she saw left her speechless.

However, it didn’t leave Lady Hurstwood speechless, who was passing from the powder room. She may not have noticed the fisted, shaking hand, but she noticed everything else.

LADY
Hurstwood’s gossiping tongue did its work at record speed. She told the tale of the earl’s passing and his son’s callousness with such relish, it was amazing to many that she managed to keep a sober look on her face. However, Gail was too busy at the moment to frown over Lady Hurstwood’s facial expressions. She had to get to Max. And since Will had put him immediately into a carriage, the only way to do that was to get out of the ball. So, instead of returning to the ballroom, she turned into the dining room, where she intended to reach her father before the gossip or Romilla did.

Sir Geoffrey sat at one of the tables, indulging in a cigar and some conversation with Mr. Fortings. He was chuckling as his daughter limped to him.

“Father,” she said, with what she hoped was a tired but happy expression, “I wanted to inform you I’m headed back to the house.”

“What? Oh Gail! What’s this? Going home already?” Sir Geoffrey asked, looking only a little peeved at her interrupting the masculine conversation.

“Yes. I’ve danced and danced, and now I’ve bruised my foot in the process. Romilla has said it’s quite all right, but I should ask you for either the carriage or hack money.”

It would, of course, be terribly crude for Sir Geoffrey to send his daughter home in a hack, so Gail soon found herself in the possession of the carriage, with the strictest instructions to send it back for the rest of the family. Then, with a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and a dismissive wave, Sir Geoffrey turned back to his conversation with Mr. Fortings before he could see his daughter remove herself quite speedily and without so much as a trace of limp.

ELSEWHERE
in the mansion, Romilla was idly sipping punch when the news of her prospective stepson-in-law’s father’s demise reached her ears. And by none other than Lady Hurstwood herself.

“And I don’t suppose we’ll ever see him married now,” that lady conspiratorially whispered.

Romilla took a calm sip of punch. “Why do you say that?” she queried nonchalantly.

“Oh, everyone knows it was his father that was pressuring him into marriage. The Baron Rentworth is a, er, close friend of mine, and he said the old Earl (God rest his soul) had actually threatened to cut the boy out of his inheritance—the part that was not entailed, which is quite a large portion. But now that the father’s gone”—here she interjected a heartfelt sigh to her narrative—“there’s no reason for the son to hunt a bride.”

Romilla, a credit to her social skills, managed to remain cool as iced tea as Lady Hurstwood delivered her parting line.

“It’s a pity someone didn’t snag him sooner—especially if that young lady strived to the point of compromise to secure him.”

AND
so it was, for the second time in a quarter hour, a female family member interrupted Sir Geoffrey during his conversation and cigar.

“Romilla!” he cried. Seeing his wife approach with a placid smile, he tried to shove his still-burning cigar into the hands of a very amused Mr. Fortings.

“Here you are, dearest,” Romilla said easily. “Mr. Fortings, do you mind if I steal my husband away for a few moments?” At that gentleman’s acquiescing nod, her husband stood and placed Romilla’s arm through his, commencing a leisurely stroll to a private alcove out of sight and earshot of the other diners.

“Darling, it wasn’t my cigar, I swear, Fortings just asked me to hold it a moment…”

“Don’t talked to me now about such a silly thing as cigars, we are about to be undone!”

As Romilla told him of the Earl’s demise and the gossip that had ensued, Sir Geoffrey’s face went from white to red, to black with anger.

“All this time…it was just for his inheritance?” Sir Geoffrey asked disbelievingly.

“Dearest, whatever his motives, it is immaterial now. The point is he’s going to cry off!”

“He gave me his word,” Sir Geoffrey said darkly. “We must impress upon him the importance of keeping it.”

“We must do more than that, we must force him.” Romilla took a deep breath and imparted her plan. “We have to announce it.”

Sir Geoffrey stroked his chin. “But even if we announce the engagement, it will appear after the news of the Earl’s death—it will seem a desperate act on our part.”

“Go and wake up your friend at the
Times
. Have him pull all the papers that were to be distributed in the morning and reprinted with the announcement. This is the material point: It must seem as if we placed the announcement before the Earl’s death. And make it known they’ve been secretly engaged for a while.”

“But…I’ve already given the carriage to take Gail home.”

Romilla was so exasperated she nearly shook her husband.

“Then, hire a hack, for goodness sake! In fact, t’will be better if you do—no one will spot our carriage where it should not be. I’ll make your excuses. Just go, now!”

And with that last command, Romilla dispatched her husband to go and awaken his editor friend from his well-earned slumber. She returned to the ballroom some minutes later, wholly composed and graceful, keeping her eyes on Evangeline as she danced, speaking quietly with her in the interim. Although she seemed to be calm and blasé in the sea of gossip swirling around them, Romilla’s mind was far too engaged on the predicament at hand to dwell very long on why her second daughter had left the party early, and unescorted.

TO
carry off her hastily put together plan, Gail required the assistance of two particular servants. One was Jimmy, the groom, who as a longtime observer of the tenuous relationship between Miss Gail and “that Lord Fontaine bloke,” and a bit of a romantic to boot, was more than willing to assist the young mistress. The second was Gail and Evangeline’s ladies’ maid, Polly, who, as luck would have it, was Jimmy’s sweetheart.

After entering Number Seven and making a show to Morrison and Mrs. Bibb of her intention to retire for the evening, Gail went to her room. There, with the assistance of Polly, she quickly changed out of her ball gown and into the darkest clothing she owned, which she discovered was her dark green velvet riding habit. With a black hooded cloak draped about Gail’s shoulders, Polly ushered her down the servant’s fortuitously empty corridors and out to the stables. There, Jimmy was waiting with QueenBee.

Covered by the cloak and the darkness of night, Gail went to the front door of Max’s rather modest dwelling and knocked softly.

She waited a full ten seconds before impatience had her trying the door handle. It was unlocked.

The lodgings were completely still. She moved quietly, keeping her eyes peeled for any servant, anyone who should acknowledge her presence, but none emerged. It seemed as if her very breath would disrupt the frozen house.

Had she guessed wrong? Maybe Max had not come back here, maybe he had gone to Longsbowe House in Mayfair. Maybe he had already left for his estate. Maybe he had…Gail poked her head into the rooms on either side of the small corridor, finding a cozy, messy study, and a small, tidy drawing room, but no sign of life. She nervously played with a curl of hair, wondering if she should check the back of the house, when the slightest flicker of light caught her eye from under a door on the far side of the drawing room.

Gail froze, mesmerized by that faint glow of light. To slip into a man’s house in the dead of night was foolish, impulsive, and tantamount to ruination. To seek him out in his bedchamber
was
ruination.

And yet, she’d come this far, with one purpose: Max. She didn’t know how, didn’t know why, but she knew he needed her to be his friend tonight.

Love is need.

It was the easiest decision of her life to cross the room and seek the light.

Her soft footsteps came to a stop before what she’d guessed was Max’s bedchamber. When soft knocking elicited no response (and neither did loud knocking), Gail held her breath as she tested the handle, easing open the door.

He stood by the bed, his back to Gail. His stillness mirrored that of his rooms, as he stared at some random spot on the counterpane, lost in his thoughts.

She stepped into the room, but kept her hand on the knob, as if to hold her from fleeing.

“Your doors are unlocked,” she ventured softly. He was so still, she couldn’t know if he heard her. “Where is everyone?”

“The maid is only here once a week. I sent Harris to Longsbowe Park, to prepare for my father’s arrival.” He spoke in monotone, keeping his back to her. The light she had followed was a single candlestick, resting on a table by the bed. It flickered softly as his breath passed by, all too soon returning to stillness. As her eyes adjusted, Gail could see various articles of clothing lying neatly on the bed, a pair of boots on the floor. Max had not changed out of his impeccable evening kit, having only removed the dark black coat. Next to the clothes sat a small opened valise.

“You’re going away,” she said softly.

“I must. I have a parent to bury.”

“Are you…”

“I’m fine,” he said curtly. “You can go.”

“No,” Gail whispered, her heart in her throat. “I don’t think I should.”

He turned to her then, his eyes unreadable in the dark, but his jaw set and angry.

“Think?” he replied mockingly. “God forbid you ever try it. Get out of here, now!”

Gail’s hand tightened on the doorknob, warring with the strong impulse to turn and run. But she held her ground.

“You told me your father tried to manipulate you in the past…” she began stiltedly.

“I don’t wish to discuss my father with you,” he warned, his tone low, his broad shoulders working fiercely under the taut expanse of his shirt.

“You should know,” Gail continued bravely, “that whatever your parent’s methods, I believe in the end his intentions were good.” She let go of the handle, taking a step away from the door. It creaked softly shut.

“When you first told me of him, I thought him a monster, and you thought him a monster, too, I believe. But I met him. He was just a man, Max. A lonely, old man, broken by time and his mistakes. I think…I think he came to understand that you were your own person. And underneath all that, he was your father.”

She stepped closer as she spoke, coming to rest in front of Max, who refused to raise his head and meet her imploring, sincere eyes. She was close enough to touch him, but dared not reach out.

“Max…” she whispered, the sympathy in her voice bridging the space between them.

“No!” he cried so sharply, Gail took a step back. “Why on earth am I plagued with such a nosy creature? Do I have to be cruel to be rid of you? Fine.” When she took another step back, he stepped forward, pushing, pursuing. “At the museum, I told you about the meanness of my father to get under your skirts. You had been twitching about the stacks all day, driving me mad, and I preyed on your surprisingly eager sympathy. You should have seen yourself, too, when I told you how my father made himself ill to get me to stay in the country—you were so ready to comfort me in my grief I could have tossed you on the floor, and you would have made no argument. In fact,” he crowded her as her back hit the wall, “you would have enjoyed it.”

Gail sucked in her breath, finding she had no farther to go. He put both of his hands on either side of her head, effectively caging her in.

“Is that why you’re here now?” he murmured. “To…assuage my grief?” One hand left the wall to graze over the velvet of her jacket. “I can’t see you in this habit without thinking of how easily the buttons come free.”

The want in his voice mingled enticingly with the menace. She felt his breath on her lips as he leaned in closer, and closer. Then in an instant, he pushed himself off the wall and stalked away from her, back to his packing.

“Get out of here now, Brat, before I take what your very presence here offers.”

Gail stood frozen to the wall, but not with fear. A great calm had settled about her, an understanding. Her voice was clear as she spoke.

“He missed you.”

She saw his shoulders tense, but he remained silent.

“All that you said tonight, on the dance floor, here in this room, I know it’s not true.”

“I don’t give a damn about my father,” he said as he ruthlessly stuffed shirts into the valise.

“Bullshit,” she replied, clear as a bell.

He turned, openmouthed in surprise.

“Where did you learn that word?”

“I know lots of words.” She moved toward him, her confidence growing with each measured step. “You’ve encouraged me to speak up, so I shall. It’s bullshit.”

“My father was an old manipulative man, and I
never
gave a damn about him,” but his voice lacked the conviction it had before.

“What ho, methinks the gentleman doth protest too much,” Gail said, her steady gaze penetrating him. “If you don’t care about him, if you
never
cared, then what have you been doing in London all this time? You could have traveled the world twice over, and yet you remained here. If you didn’t care about your father, then you must have been simply waiting around for him to die.”