Chapter 4

Next morning, Gabriella, after assisting la comtesse with her toilette for the day, sat beside the window yawning and re-hemming the green gown from last night. Her mistress would most likely never wear it again, but she’d given strict instructions to remove and reattach the offending flounce. Gabriella shook her head but continued to sew. Madame had very peculiar notions about her maid’s duties, but as she had provided passage to England and promised to pay her wages on time, Gabriella would not complain.

She bit through the last thread, hung the gown up in madame ’s dressing room, and was cleaning up her sewing things when Lady Chalgrove burst into the room.

“Gabriella, my best carriage dress. The blue with the embroidered silk flower medallions.” La comtesse pulled at her clothing, throwing the fichu on the floor and plucking at the shoulders of her muslin morning gown.

“ Madame, un moment . Allow me.” Gabriella rushed to her mistress and began unbuttoning her before the woman could tear the clothes from her body. “What is wrong, madame ?”

“Nothing is wrong. Everything is very, very right.” Lady Chalgrove stripped the gloves from her hands. “Or everything will be right, if only you hurry.”

Gabriella finished unfastening her mistress’s gown and drew it over her head before she tore this one as well. “What has happened, madame ?”

Lady Chalgrove breathed deeply, pushing out what little bosom she possessed. “He is here. The Duke of Rother came to call not ten minutes ago.”

Stunned into silence, Gabriella stopped. The duke was here. Her hands trembled so hard she dropped the gown and had to bend to pick it up. He was in the same house as she, just downstairs. Could she run down now and seek an audience? She clutched the discarded dress to her chest and headed to the door.

“Where are you going?” Lady Chalgrove’s shrill voice pierced her ears, snapping her out of her trance.

Dear Lord, she actually had her hand on the latch. Turning back, she straightened her shoulders, hoping to play this off as she would a game of whist. “I am sorry, madame . I thought to go soak this small stain before it sets.” She pointed to a fortunate grease stain, about the size of a farthing, on the bodice. Thank God for providing such a wonderful excuse.

“Idiot. I tell you I need to change this instant, and you set off to wash a spot?” Lady Chalgrove’s face had turned an unbecoming shade of red. “Come back here and help me on with this dress.”

“ Oui, madame .” Gabriella laid the one gown on the bed and caught up the blue sarcenet, fresh from being pressed this morning. “Raise your arms.” She carefully slid the gown over her mistress’s head.

Lady Chalgrove’s hair emerged unscathed, save for a few dark black wisps that had stubbornly broken free. She must remember to attend to them before the whole coiffure collapsed.

“Hurry. I must not keep His Grace waiting. How fortunate the weather is fine. I suggested he show me his horses, and he offered a curricle ride instead. Quick, bring the Pear’s. I must be in looks, today of all days.”

Gabriella finished buttoning the blue gown then hurried back to the dressing room, scrambling to find madame ’s cosmetics case. How could she turn this encounter to her advantage? At last, she spied the tortoiseshell box under a large crate that held la comtesse ’s shoes.

“Hurry up, Gabriella!” The strident voice would’ve shattered crystal had there been any about.

Gabriella winced, grabbed the case, and backed out of the crammed room.

“Stupid girl. Were you going to let me go downstairs with my hair looking like birds had roosted in it?” The countess dabbed on more perfume, dribbling it down her neck. The room reeked of the cloying musk she always used. Her eyes flashed jet black and her brows dipped so low they seemed to sit upon her nose. She had pursed her mouth, displeasure written over her white lips and scowling brows.

“Of course not, madame.” The woman reminded Gabriella of the hideous gorgon she’d seen in a picture in the Louvre when she was small. The sight had given her nightmares for a week. Now the nightmare had come to life. “I intended to apply the Pear’s then attend to your coiffure. However did it manage to come loose?” Gabriella soothed the wretched woman, sitting her down at the table, brushing and coaxing her hair to behave, speaking to her in the tone she reserved for petulant children and barking dogs.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” the countess snapped, jerking her head to and fro to get a better look in the mirror in her hand. “It didn’t look that way when I left this room. Your pins must have fallen out.” She turned an accusatory eye on Gabriella. “This hair had best not move no matter how fast the duke drives.”

“Fear not, madame . I will secure it so that even the briskest breeze will not ruffle a single hair,” Gabriella said, opening the pot of hair pomade. With practiced fingers, she dabbed here and there, ignoring the unpleasant greasy sensation, smoothing and fastening the hairs with the sticky pomatum that smelled of roses. Then, to make sure the strands wouldn’t move even if a whirlwind overtook the curricle, she stuck in a half-dozen hairpins as well. She would have the devil’s own time combing out the gummy mess tonight, but such was her lot. At least it was not yet time to wash the hair—an ordeal akin to preparations for a sea battle.

She worked quickly, sculpting the hair into waves and curls, then stepped back. “ Voila, madame .”

Lady Chalgrove eyed the coiffure critically then nodded. “Very well. Where is the Pear’s?”

Gabriella dug through the pots of creams, lotions, and cosmetics searching for the rouge and lip salve. A generous application, and Lady Chalgrove looked like a blooming rose, at least on her cheeks and lips.

“Is madame pleased?” She held the mirror up for her mistress’s inspection. Once done, could she perhaps race below and steal a moment of the duke’s time?

“It will do.” The countess glanced into the mirror and nodded as she pulled on her gloves. “See that you clean up this mess,” she swept a hand over the pots and jars strewn over the toilette table, “then make sure my gold muslin is ready for tonight’s dinner. I’m not certain the duke will be there, but I need to look my best just in case.” She motioned for her gray silk Spencer, and Gabriella tugged the garment into place and fastened the four large buttons in front. “Don’t forget to add the rosettes to the overlay on the rose lutestring for tomorrow. Oh, and my pink and green slippers are in sad shape from last night. See to them as well.”

“ Oui , all has been accomplished already, madame .” Gabriella at last pinned the countess’s best black velvet carriage hat in place, tied the wide ribbons under her left ear, and breathed a sigh of relief. “I believe you are complete, madame . Vous etes très ravissante .”

The countess grunted, grabbed her reticule, and flounced out the door.

Gabriella sank down on the bench before the toilette table, head in hand. So much for catching even a glimpse of the duke, much less speaking with him. Horses snorted from the driveway outside. She jumped up and flew to the window.

A shiny black curricle with the ducal crest emblazoned on the side gleamed in the sunlight. Yellow wheels and the tiger on the back in blue and gold livery completed the glittering picture. The townhouse door opened, and Lady Chalgrove strutted forth on the arm of a tall man in blue and buff. The countess laughed and squeezed his arm as he handed her up into the curricle. He jumped into the seat beside her and took the ribbons then, with a touch of the whip, started the horses at a trot, and the carriage sped off down the street.

Gabriella waited until they were out of sight then turned back into the room, determined to speak with Monsieur Carpenter as soon as possible. The last thing she’d expected was the duke actually wooing her employer. Whether this development would impede her plans she couldn’t tell; men were so unpredictable. However, she doubted it would help her in any way. She must therefore press Monsieur Carpenter to arrange the meeting with the duke before he became enamored of Lady Chalgrove. There was too much at stake to leave anything to chance now.

* * * *

Hal stood in front of his father’s gaudy black lacquer Chinese desk—decorated with gold figures, pagodas, and landscapes—as he’d done countless times in his life, thinking that his first act as Duke of Brixham would be to resign this monstrosity to the uppermost floor of the house, family heirloom or not, and bespeak a solid mahogany desk from Gillows. This one dredged up too many unpleasant memories every time he saw it.

Today’s visit had no sinister implication, however. He’d come to Black Hall this afternoon of his own accord, rather than being summoned as usual, to spy out the lay of the land, so to speak, regarding how his father might take the news his son wished to marry a woman who was not their social equal. Not that he’d made his mind up about Miss d’Aventure. No, he still wanted to become better acquainted with her. However, he’d spent the night tossing and turning, haunted by the memory of Gabriella’s body pressed close to his, her warm lips, and charming manner. No other woman had affected him this way. He’d risen at dawn and gone riding in the hopes that fresh air and the dew-speckled grass in Hyde Park would break the spell the little maid had cast upon him, but hope had melted like ice in a furnace as the sun climbed the sky. He could not get his thoughts of Gabriella to abate. Hence, his desperate call on his father. At least he would know how deep the malice toward him would extend should he do the unthinkable and marry a lady’s maid.

Hal gazed longingly at the decanter in his father’s hand. The man never stinted on the quality of his liquor.

“What brings you here this time of day, Halford? Or here at all, I should say. You’ve not darkened my door since the year began.” The Duke of Brixham, a tall, distinguished man, poured a measured splash of French brandy into a tumbler and handed it to his son. “I hope this means you are acceding to my request that you marry and set up your nursery in the next year.” His father poured a rather more sizeable portion of the spirit into his own glass and motioned for Hal to sit. “I wouldn’t think it too arduous a task for a young man in your circumstances.”

“Not too arduous, Father.” Hal sipped the brandy, savoring the rich flavor as much as the surprised expression on his sire’s face. “I have been seriously thinking about it.”

“Splendid.” The duke had raised his eyebrows but nodded. “I appreciate your willingness to indulge me in this matter. Eight-and-twenty may seem young to some to find a wife, but mark me, Halford, if the fates align against you, you will be happy you secured the succession in a timely manner.”

Hal understood that quite well. His mother had died giving birth to him. His father’s second wife had remained barren for many years and when she had conceived, had miscarried.

The doctors told them another pregnancy would likely be the end of her. He’d loved his stepmother, Frances, for she’d been kind to him all during his boyhood and had remained fond of him during his years away at school.

In recent years, however, she’d become more aloof, remaining in the country year-round. In one of her rare letters, she’d confided to him that she believed the ton whispered about her shortcomings as a wife. Her solution, therefore, was to remove the topic from view and hopefully lessen the fodder for the gossips. Hal doubted the situation was so dire but didn’t press the issue. Her presence at the London house might’ve created a whole new set of tensions. As he’d never been able to fathom how his father felt about her, he let the subject strictly alone.

Hal raised his glass, unsure how to broach the issue of Gabriella.

“Who is she?”

He stopped, brandy untasted. “I beg your pardon?”

“The girl. Who is this girl you’ve come to ask my blessing for?” The duke chuckled and poured another round into his glass. “That has to be the reason for this visit. I know you better than to believe this a purely social call.”

Damn, the old man wasn’t going to make this easy. Best go slowly. “Well, I haven’t actually found the proper lady yet, Father.”

An immediate frown darkened the duke’s face. “What exactly do you mean ‘the proper lady,’ Halford? You haven’t gone and proposed to the wrong lady, have you? Some ballet dancer, perhaps?”

“Oh, no.” Hal shook his head. A lady’s maid might be more respectable than a dancer, but neither would be an acceptable bride according to his father.

“Good.” His father’s stern face relaxed.

“The only woman I’ve proposed to is Lady Celinda Grantham.” Damn. The words were out before he thought.

“Lady Celinda?” The duke sat up, face abeam with smiles. “Old Ivor’s daughter? Oh, well done, Halford.” The old man’s eyes held a predatory gleam. “She’ll come with at least thirty thousand.” The pleased expression looked odd on the usually stern visage. “Why would you not think her a proper lady?”

Hal peered at the floor, wanting to look at anything other than his father’s face. He should have known better than to speak without thinking. Now he’d gotten his father’s hopes up, it would be twice as hard to give him the truth. Never disappoint a duke.

“The thing is, Father…” He stalled, rubbing the back of his neck. “The thing is she turned me down.”

“Turned you down?” The duke rose, his glass clinking on the polished surface of the desk. “She turned you down? You’re the Marquess of Halford. You will one day be Duke of Brixham. And she refused your suit?”

“Afraid so.” Hal set his empty glass down, wishing it would fill itself magically. “She’d just met a chap, a Lord Finley, who’s lately returned from America. She’s got a tendre for him at the moment, it seems.” He shrugged. Perhaps he could play this off to his advantage. “That’s what you hear these days. Love reigns with all the ladies. With the fellows as well. Both Jamison and Pettigrew told me not a week ago that they’d married for love.”

The duke sat back in his chair, his eyes narrowed.

Hal forged on. “That’s why I think it best that I take my time to find a love match. Like you and my mother.”

“What gave you the idea my marriage to your mother was a love match?” Father’s gaze didn’t waver from Hal’s face. He tapped the tips of his fingers together.

“Well, I just assumed…”

“I was fond of your mother, make no mistake about that. I am fond of your stepmother as well. But I have never allowed my feelings to have any weight when it came to choosing my duchess.” His father’s eyes bored into him. “I suggest you do the same, Halford. You look at the lady’s breeding, her family connections, and what financial incentives she can bring to the marriage. Those are the only things you need concern yourself with.” Father leaned forward, unblinking. “Perhaps I need to take a hand in arranging your marriage myself.”

Hal’s stomach dropped as though he’d jumped from the cliffs of Dover. Not only were his father’s ideas on marriage diametrically opposed to his own, but the idea that he’d actually arrange a marriage for him without giving him any say in the matter at all was appalling beyond belief. This was a devil of a predicament from which he needed to extricate himself immediately. “I don’t think that’s necessary at this time, Father. The Season is just begun, and there are many young ladies who should meet your standards.”

“Who is out this year?” Father leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink. “Perhaps I can arrange some introductions if you’re being squeamish about it. I cannot think any father would be anything but thrilled to have his daughter marry you.” He shook his head. “I should have spoken to Ivor sooner. That would have solved all our problems.”

Hal suppressed a shudder. The thought of being married to Celinda would have been palatable a mere twenty-four hours ago. Now, however, with his desire for Gabriella raging, he couldn’t imagine having any other woman in his bed. How unfortunate Gabriella had no proper lineage. Of course, he didn’t know that for certain. She could have come from French nobility who’d lost everything a generation ago during the Terror. He’d not had a chance to ask her.

“Now I think of it, there is one young lady who might suit me down to the ground. She hasn’t got notions about love, as far as I can tell. At least, she’s not looking all doe-eyed. Very straightforward and sensible, I’d say.” That was the truth about Gabriella as he saw it.

The duke leaned forward. “But you haven’t proposed to her?”

“No. We only met last evening, at Lady Hamilton’s ball. I wasn’t going to mention it because there is the possibility of a small impediment.”

“Spit it out, Halford. Stop this infernal shillyshallying.” He banged his fist on the desk like a gavel.

“She’s…French.” Hal blew out the breath he’d been holding.

“French! God in heaven.” The duke sank back in his chair and reached for his glass, only to find it empty. “All the best English ladies to choose from and you take a fancy to a French girl? Who is her family?”

“D’Aventure.” Hal closed his eyes and prayed. His father’s interest in anything French, other than spirits, wouldn’t fill a thimble. If luck was with him, the name would mean nothing.

Fingers laced together, the duke ruminated, his brows wiggling up and down, his lips pursed. Finally, he shook his head. “D’Aventure? I cannot place it. Was her father a soldier promoted by Boney? That was all the rage ten years ago.” He leaned back in his chair. “Of course, there could always be land involved with the settlements. Who is her father?”

“I don’t exactly know, Your Grace. I scarcely had time to talk to her. We spoke of other things than families.” Speaking had been the least of it.

“I take that to mean you spent the time you should have been gathering her particulars making love to her instead.” His father poured them another libation. “First things first, my boy.”

“If you mean courting her, Father, then yes. I thought making a good impression with her the best way to begin. I could hardly blurt out, ‘Who is your father and what is his rank?’” Hal tossed down his drink. It was a decent enough question, however. If Gabriella had sufficient lineage that the leap from maid to marchioness wouldn’t be a strenuous one, he’d be more than happy to make her his bride. “This is why I wished to have more time, to find out more about her family, her lineage.” He gave his father a long look. “Her financial situation. So, if you have no objection…?” He let the question linger in the air. Let his father take the bait.

“Oh, I’m positive I will have objections of some sort. But if the lady is gently born, we may see our way clear to an agreement.” The duke held the decanter out to Hal.

“No, thank you, Father.” He rose and donned his hat. “I must find Miss d’Aventure, or, more specifically, her father. I will keep you apprised of my progress.” With a bow, he turned and walked sedately from the interview, although jumping with wild glee on the inside. If he could persuade his father to allow him to marry Gabriella, he’d be the happiest of men. Not only would he have done his duty to his father and his family, but he’d also have assuaged his own desires in a very satisfactory way.

Tomorrow night’s appointment with Gabriella would be even more crucial now. Not only must he arrange her meeting with the duke, he must ferret out her father while making her none the wiser. A tall order for a man not particularly given to intrigues. He hoped for his sake he was up to the challenge.