Chapter 7

Sunday afternoon, promptly at three o’clock, Gabriella stood at the end of the Chinese Bridge in St. James’s Park, dressed in her best gown of blue striped muslin that she’d made for herself before she’d left France for England. She’d thought it would be the gown she wore when she met the duke, but she’d nothing else pretty enough to wear to see Horace today and so had donned it this afternoon after Lady Chalgrove had quite unexpectedly given her leave to go. What had Lady Celinda said to make madame give her the entire afternoon off? She’d have to ask Horace when he arrived.

She lifted her face, enjoying the warmth of the sun. Such a long time since she’d been free to do as she pleased. And today it pleased her very much to spend time with Horace. Thoughts of the handsome valet had been spinning around her head ever since she’d agreed to meet him today. Ever since she’d met him, to be truthful. Their kisses had touched her to her very soul. Not something that had ever happened to her before. But if things went well when she met with the Duke of Rother, all her dreaming about Horace must come to an end. She sighed. Almost she hoped Lady Celinda wouldn’t be able to arrange the introduction to the duke.

Almost.

“Good afternoon, Mademoiselle D’Aventure.”

She turned to find Monsieur Carpenter striding toward her, looking very handsome in his brown superfine suit and bowler hat. Her sharp eyes, always discerning when it involved clothing, took in the excellent cut of the coat, the richness of the fabric, and the jeweled pin tucked in his cravat. Horace was dressed more along the lines of his master than a valet. “Good afternoon, Monsieur Carpenter. Do I see that you have raided the marquess’s dressing room?”

Horace grinned at her and held his arms out. “It looks that way, does it not? However, the truth is that, as I told you, my master is a follower of Beau Brummel. As such, he seldom wears a suit more than two or three times. Then he gives the clothing to me or to another servant so they can sell them and use the money as extra income.” His eyes twinkled. “Fortunately for me, my master and I are about the same size, so I have managed to accumulate quite a wardrobe of my own.”

“You are the fortunate one.” Gabriella smiled at him. Some people were certainly more blessed than others when it came to their masters. “Lady Chalgrove wears her clothing many times then has me remake them into new gowns. I doubt she will give them away until they are little more than rags.”

Not that she would wear any of madame’s gowns. Her figure was fine, except for her bosoms, but Gabriella would never wish to wear the woman’s cast-off clothing. Her taste in fabrics was questionable at best—some of the garish colors made Gabriella wince as she dressed Madame.

“Then I assume this beautiful gown is one of your own?” His admiring gaze made Gabriella’s cheeks heat.

“ Oui . I made it myself before I left France.” She cut a glance at him. “For just such an occasion as this.”

Horace beamed at her and offered his arm. “Shall we stroll across the bridge and down the canal?”

She looped her hand through his elbow, and they mounted the stairs leading onto the curious wooden bridge painted a bright yellow. “A Chinese bridge is a strange thing to have in an English park, n’est-ce pas ?”

“Oh, the English are famous for loving the odd and unusual.” Horace chuckled. “We must go to Vauxhall Gardens sometime, and you can see the Turkish Tent, the Chinese Temples, the Cascades, the Orchestra, and so many more oddities.”

They ambled over the bridge, one couple among the throng of people enjoying the excellent weather. As they reached the middle of the bridge, Horace gestured upward. “Until a few years ago, there was a seven story Chinese pagoda built in the center of the bridge.”

Gabriella peered up, but there was nothing to be seen but the cloudless sky. “What happened to it?”

“There was a grand fireworks display in August of 1814 that caught the pagoda on fire, and it went up in flames.” He walked over to the side of the bridge. “If you look over here at the side of the bridge, you can still see streaks of soot ingrained into the wood.”

Gabriella peered over the railing and, bien sur , there were the dark lines snaking alongside the wooden panels. “ Mon Dieu! Comme c’est tragique .” She turned to Horace. “Were there lives lost in this fire?”

He nodded and started them toward the far end of the bridge. “Two carpenters were killed. But it could have been much worse.”

They reached the opposite bank and turned to the right, threading through the crowds, Gabriella brooding over the tragedy. But she didn’t wish this day to turn gloomy. Her first free day should be celebrated. At the very least, it required her thanks. “I must thank you for persuading Lady Chalgrove to allow me to come here today.” She gazed up at him, her curiosity sharp. “How on earth did you manage it?”

He chuckled. “As I said, Lady Celinda is very indebted to me for a service I did for her. So I asked her to bring Lady Chalgrove’s attention to a little-known law that says any time off a servant is entitled to but does not receive must be paid the equivalent in cash when the servant leaves their employ.”

Gabriella’s brows rose. “This is the English law?”

“Well,” Horace leaned down and whispered, “perhaps it should be.”

“Lady Celinda lied to Madame?” Gabriella’s mouth fell open. “ C’est incroyable !”

“The lady was incensed when I told her what your mistress was doing to you. She had no compunction about telling a small lie to help you.” Horace chuckled again. “I think she enjoyed it.”

“I must thank her when I meet her.” Gabriella smiled. Horace wasn’t the only kind person in England. “Has she said yet when I am to meet the duke?”

Horace shook his head. “She hasn’t spoken with Rother yet, but as soon as she informs me that she has, I will let you know. Hopefully, she can arrange it for next Sunday. That way we know you will be free.”

“You truly believe Madame will allow me to have every Sunday afternoon off?” Given her knowledge of the woman, Gabriella would not wager a sou on that.

“Trust me. I wouldn’t be surprised if you begin to have full days off each month, my dear.” Horace led them to a bench strategically placed in front of a particularly picturesque spot on the canal. “Why don’t we sit here for a few minutes and admire the view?”

Gabriella nodded and sank down gratefully. The sun was warmer than she’d anticipated. “It is beautiful here, n’est-ce pas ?”

“Yes, it certainly is.” The valet’s gaze, however, was trained on her, not the water.

Cheeks glowing with warmth, and not due to the sun, Gabriella glanced away, wishing for a fan.

“I wanted to meet you today to find out more about you. I feel that I know you quite well, but truly I know very little, save that you are from France and are a lady’s maid.” He took her hand. “Can you tell me more about you, about your family?”

“You wish to know about my family?” She stared at him curiously.

“Of course I do. Where you grew up in France, your brothers and sisters.” He gazed earnestly into her eyes. “I told you the other night I wished to know everything about you.”

Somewhat mollified, Gabriella began. “I grew up in Paris, in the house of a wine merchant. It was a small shop, but it was always home.”

“You must know a great deal about wine then.”

“ Bien sur .” She raised her chin. “I know everything there is to know about French wine.”

Horace’s eyes twinkled. “That will come in handy when we dine. Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“ Non . It has always just been me.”

“I too was an only child.” He cocked his head. “Were you lonely?”

Gabriella shrugged. She’d never thought much about being lonely when she was young. “ Non , not particularly. I always helped my mother in the shop and played with children in the neighborhood. It was a good life.” She looked at him inquiringly. “Were you lonely growing up?”

“Sometimes.” He looked out over the water, his brows knitted into a frown. “My father saw to it that I wanted for nothing. But sometimes, yes, I was lonely.” With a sigh, Horace seemed to try to shake off his melancholy. He turned back to her, his gaze intense. “And it was your father’s shop you helped in? Your father was a wine merchant?”

“ Oui . He was a friend of my grandfather’s, le père de ma mère , who was also a wine merchant.” She frowned. “Why do you ask that?”

“I wondered if he might have been a soldier in the wars with England.”

Never had she thought Horace, always so kind to her, would be contre les Francais . She began to bristle. “That would make a difference to you?”

“No. Well, only so far as it might hinder my suit.” The valet sighed. “He may not wish for his daughter to marry an Englishman.”

“Oh.” Gabriella sat up, her heart beating fiercely. Monsieur Carpenter was contemplating asking Papa for her hand in marriage. The situation was spinning out of her control. “You don’t truly intend to ask to marry me, do you, Horace?”

He sent her the smile that made her knees weak. “I certainly do, my dear. When the time is right.”

She must put a stop to this. It was her fault, for she’d wanted to spend time with Horace, but she couldn’t let him continue to think she would be able to marry him. “Horace, do you remember the other night when I told you I wanted to deny that I felt something special between us when we kissed?”

“Of course.” He took her hand and laced their fingers together. “But now we are getting to know one another, just as I promised.”

“Yes, we are. But there…there was another reason I wished to deny that feeling. Something that has to do with the Duke of Rother and why I must meet him.” Gabriella squeezed his hand then let it go. She had confessed this to no one. “You were correct that my longing to see the duke is not merely a child’s dream, although it truly has been my desire all my life.” Oh, but he would hate her for this. “I am sorry I misled you, Horace. I did not wish to tell you half-truths. I want you to trust me, but it was necessary for me to lie to gain your help.”

“You didn’t think I would help you if you told me…what?” Horace looked at her with a trace of alarm.

Gabriella breathed slowly and stared into his beautiful eyes. “That the Duke of Rother is my father.”

****

Hal’s mouth dropped open. Of the many things he’d imagined behind Gabriella’s desire to meet the duke—wish, secret lover, bribery—this one had never occurred to him. He cleared his throat. “The Duke of Rother is your father?” The statement was simply too preposterous to be true. “But you’re French.”

“I am also half English. I am certain it seems a wild tale to you, yet it is true.” She sat with her head bowed, the breeze blowing the sleeves of her gown. “You do not believe me.”

He waited, marshalling his thoughts before opening his mouth and ruining whatever chance he had of preserving her trust. Could her outrageous statement actually be true? He must tread softly. “Putting my beliefs aside for the moment, why do you believe this is true?”

“My mother has told me the story since I was a little girl.”

Hal fought to retain control of his face. He could show nothing but interest and confidence, or she would likely storm off and refuse ever to see him again. “What story, my dear?”

“The tale of an English duke who came to her village when she was sixteen years old.” Gabriella kneaded the folds of her skirt, her hands rustling the fabric. “I suppose if you do not believe me, I have no hope of the duke doing so either.”

In that, she was likely correct. Rother might’ve had numerous affairs in his youth, any one of them producing a child. To suppose he would remember a single night’s pleasure out of all his escapades took greater faith than Hal possessed. Yet who was he to deny anyone their belief? He took her hand back in his and leaned closer, shielding her from the strengthening wind. “Tell me.”

She sighed and nodded, gazing out at the water that was beginning to churn. “In 1800, a stranger who said he was a French nobleman overturned his carriage outside the town of Angouleme. One of the wheels came off, and the carriage, which was going quite fast, went into a ditch. The nobleman survived, as did his valet. His coachman, however, was killed. The nobleman sent the valet into Angouleme for help, and he returned with the wine merchant, Monsieur Jacque Dubois. The merchant invited the man, who said his name was le Comte du Maine, into his home for the night, until a new carriage and coachman could be found.”

“Did he stay only the one night?” Hal had gotten caught up in the story despite himself.

Gabriella shook her head. “ Non , because that night at dinner, the daughter of the house, Veronique Dubois, served the comte . Only sixteen years old, with long blond hair and a will of her own, she was determined to draw his interest.” Gabriella paused, a wistful smile creeping over her face. “She said he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, tall and straight, with broad shoulders and long, dark hair. The moment she saw him she knew he was the man of her dreams. They flirted with their eyes during dinner and laughed together over the wine and dessert before she was sent to bed. Her father had seen their glances and feared the worst. He was a very astute man who knew his daughter—and the ways of men—well.”

She shrugged and spread her hands. “In the end, it did no good. His daughter had been overcome with a mad passion for the handsome young comte .” Gabriella looked up at him, a tight little smile on her lips. “I believe you may know something of this feeling?”

Hal nodded and clasped both her hands in his. Yes, he knew that passion well.

“That night, the daughter went to the comte ’s bed, and every night for the week that he lingered there. In the darkness of his room, they shared many things. One night he told her he was in truth an English marquess and would one day become the Duke of Rother. When she asked how he had come to be in Angouleme, he spoke of his travels, how he had been mad to take his Grand Tour, even though wars raged on the continent. Still, he had journeyed to Italy, Egypt, and Greece. When he wished to return to England, he decided to go through France.”

“But in 1800, England and France were at war.” Hal had to point this out, despite how engrossed he’d become in the tale.

Gabriella shrugged. “The war had lasted long, and the marquess was an impatient man. He disguised himself and began his passage home.”

Hal had to admit it certainly sounded like Rother, bold as brass. He’d known the man for years, although they didn’t run in the same circles. Still, this particular story had never surfaced in the ton .

“The marquess also told her he was betrothed to an English lady, daughter of another marquess, and therefore could not marry her, though now he wished it with all his heart.” She laughed softly. “She told me she smiled to herself when he said that, for she knew he would not have married the daughter of a French wine merchant in any case. Still, it was noble of him to say this. When he left at the end of the week, on a boat heading for Bordeaux, she cried, but swore she regretted nothing.” Gabriella stopped and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

Hal slipped his arm around her shoulders. Rother had indeed married the daughter of a marquess in the early years of the century. Uncanny how the stories matched, although he assumed the tale was not yet done. “There is one more piece to the story, I suspect?”

“ Oui . One more.” She leaned back against his shoulder. “Soon after her lover left, she realized she was with child, as she had hoped. She had wanted to keep something of the man she had fallen in love with, and what better than his child? Her father had expected as much and arranged a marriage for her with another wine merchant in Paris, one of his good friends, Maurice d’Aventure.” Gabriella shrugged. “He was a good man, who knew everything from the beginning. He was very kind to my mother, and after I was born, he raised me as his own daughter, especially when there were no children to follow me. He indulged us in anything, even when my mother insisted I learn to sew well enough to become a modiste and support myself without the necessity of marriage.”

“Why did you not become a dressmaker, then?”

“Oh, I did, for a time. That is how I met Lady Chalgrove. But I do not like sewing,” she said, grimacing at the word. “As we sewed in our rooms above the wine shop, my mother would tell me stories. One of them was of the marquess and her precious time with him. I vowed to myself that I would find him one day, tell him who I was and see to it he remembered my mother.” Gabriella ducked her head. “She said if he agreed to acknowledge me, I could become one of the ladies at the English court.”

Hal peered at her, heart racing. “Is that what you desire, my dear? To become a lady such as your mistress?”

She raised her head, eyes bright with tears. “ Non , not exactly. I thought I would spend time with my real father, come to know him as my mother had described him. And that, eventually, he might arrange for me to meet a fine gentleman who would marry me, either here in England or in France. But now…”

“But now?” He forced himself to remain calm, even though he longed to seize her in his arms and tell her everything.

“I have met you.” She brushed at a tear as it trickled down her cheek. “I still wish to meet my father, but if he acknowledges me, we can never be together. A duke would never allow his daughter to marry so far beneath his station.” She gripped his hand, her brows lifting. “I could instead simply meet him, tell him I am his daughter but ask for no more.” Her face filled with excitement. “Then we could be together, Horace.”

Inwardly, Hal groaned. They must persuade the duke to acknowledge her or his own father would never allow them to marry. Would it be better to tell her his identity now, or wait until the duke recognized her as his child? If His Grace refused, his ruse would come to light when he explained why they could not wed. If the duke agreed, the revelation of Hal’s subterfuge might make her hate him so much she would never accept him. What a devilish muddle.

“Horace?” Her wide-eyed alarm brought him back to the present.

He opened his mouth to tell her the truth. “I…uh, of course, Gabriella,” he said, automatically rubbing her hand. God, but he was a coward. He simply couldn’t bear to tell her. Not yet. Not until he knew what Rother would do. So how could they convince him? A wild hope sprang up that somehow there’d been a secret wedding, or that somewhere there were letters between the duke and her mother in which the duke admitted that Gabriella must be his daughter. “Did your mother have any proof of this story? Papers of some sort?”

She frowned and pulled her hand from his. “Papers? What papers? You think my mother would have stolen the duke’s papers?”

Hal groaned and scrubbed his hand down his face. “No, Gabriella, darling, I didn’t mean that. I just wondered if it was written somewhere that your mother had this affair with Rother. Did he ever write to her, either as the marquess or later, when he became the duke?”

Gabriella rose from the bench like an avenging angel, lacking only a fiery sword to smite him. “You think my mother has lied to me all these years? How dare you suggest such a thing? She is an honorable woman, who has loved me since before I was born. She would never lie to me!”

“No, of course not, Gabriella.” He scrambled up, his gaze darting around to be sure no one was near enough to hear them. “I didn’t mean—”

“I am Mademoiselle d’Aventure to you, monsieur . Or better yet, do not address me at all if you think so ill of my mother and of me.” She straightened and drew her hand back.

The crack of skin on skin sounded appallingly loud in the quiet night air. He rubbed at the sting on his cheek then moved his jaw to assure himself it still worked.

“ Br?le en enfer !” With that incomprehensible phrase, she whirled around, skirts flying, and stomped away.

“Damn.” Hal dropped back onto the bench, massaging his still-smarting face.

His hopes for a straightforward courtship with Gabriella lay dashed on the cold ground. If Rother turned out to be her father, and if he agreed to acknowledge her, Hal might be a step closer to making her his marchioness. Once acknowledged, she might be considered an eligible parti even by his conservative parent.

If she turned out not to be the duke’s by-blow—despite the plausible tale, it could very well be a tempest in a teapot—or if the duke was not moved to admit his past indiscretion in light of his current search for a wife, Hal was in an even worse position regarding his father’s decree. Asking to marry the illegitimate granddaughter of a French wine merchant might make a ballet dancer seem respectable in his father’s estimation.

Of course, if Gabriella wouldn’t forgive him his doubts, there would be no problem to solve other than where to store the pieces of his broken heart.