She was elated over the notion that he might isolate or incarcerate Elizabeth, joyous over a detention and what it might engender. His wife was an enigma, a disconcerting mystery, an amalgamation of devious plots and machinations. If she put half as much energy into correcting her personal flaws as she did poking her nose into the business of others, she might eventually achieve some contentment.
As it was, he couldn't predict what would become of her. Or himself. How was he to trudge through the remainder of his years with her? The concept was so depressing that he couldn't bear to contemplate it.
"You may go to your room."
"But what about—"
"I will investigate your allegations." He gestured toward the hall, indicating that their appointment was concluded and—praise be!—she stood to go. "I will uncover the facts, and you had better hope that what you've divulged is the entire truth."
"It is. You'll see."
Her vehemence persuaded him as to her veracity, and his heart sank. Still, he was compelled to add, "If you've been lying, my wrath shall descend upon you. There will be no way to redeem yourself."
"Aye, sir."
"A terrible whipping will be only the first of your punishments."
"I'm not afraid."
Indeed, the more adamant her declarations, the more he was satisfied as to her probity. "I will handle this, and in the meantime, you will not utter a word to anyone."
"But I ought to be able to—"
"Tell no one! Especially Elizabeth. You'll not so much as broach the subject with her. No snide comments. No insinuating remarks." His fury shut her up. "You and I will not speak of this again, either."
"That's not fair," she said, mutinous. "I'm the one who discovered her fall from grace. I should be permitted to—"
"We shall not discuss it again!" He stalked around the desk, yanking at the door and motioning toward the hall. "You're excused."
She hesitated as though she would argue or instigate further debate, but on witnessing his determination, she decided against such an unwise course. In a huff, she lifted her skirts and floated out.
With her egress, he went to the sideboard and poured another whisky, then he wearily slumped into a chair.
What to do? What to do?
Chapter Nineteen
As the footman pronounced their caller, John wasn't certain he'd heard correctly.
"Findley Harcourt?" he inquired in astonishment "The Earl of Norwich. You're positive you have the name right?"
The servant didn't appreciate having his abilities disputed, and he hid his indignation as he tendered the earl's card.
“
Well... I’ll be damned," John murmured as he passed it to Mary. "What the devil could he want?"
"Lord only knows," Mary grumbled. She stood, brushing at her skirt, patting her hair, then marching or the door.
"Where are you going?"
"I'll handle this."
"You will not."
"He's obviously come to speak with you.
About me."
"You're sure of that, are you?" Her irritation was so great that he almost felt sorry for Findley.
“Don't trouble yourself, dear. I'll send him packing."
"Actually, Mrs. Preston"—the footman interrupted, before she could rush downstairs to box Findley's pars—"he's not here to see you or Mr. Preston. He asked for Mr. Cristofore."
"Gabriel?" Abruptly, Mary halted and spun around, glaring at John. "Did he say why?"
"No, ma'am," the retainer responded. "He requested a private meeting, though, claiming it was a matter of some gravity that couldn't be delayed."
"Gad, what next?" John sighed, abhorring that he'd been drawn into the brewing debacle. He rose and went to Mary's side as she cast him a scathing look that clearly said
I
told you so.
Just to discover how fiercely she'd bristle, he grinned and queried, "You don't suppose this has to do with Elizabeth, do you?"
"It has everything
to do
with Elizabeth, as you well know."
*'I hate to go in blind. What will he demand?"
"Your son's misbehavior has finally caught up with him. I'd guess we're about to gain a daughter.”
Her comment stopped him in his tracks. "You think Findley will insist that they wed?"
"Don't you?"
"I hadn't given the situation serious contemplation one way or me other."
"What other recourse does he have?"
"I can't conceive of Findley stooping so low. Gabriel is quite a bit beneath what he must have always pictured us a son-in-law."
'Trust me," she smirked. "Gabriel's about to become a husband. I understand Findley better than anyone. He won't let the outrage pass with no recompense. There's about to be a wedding."
"I wouldn't count on it."
"Why? Don't you like Elizabeth?" She scowled at him. "She's a fine woman."
"That may be,
chère,
but Gabriel will never marry her."
"How could he refuse? Her ruination is entirely his fault." She was furious enough to skewer any man lingering too closely.
"I'm not disagreeing," he hastily maintained. "I'm just clarifying. Despite what he's done, he'll never acquiesce to matrimony. Especially not when a horse's ass such as Findley is ordering it" He smiled, hoping to defuse some of her ire, "He's contrary."
"So is Findley."
"This won't be pretty."
"No, it won't"
"Do you expect there'll be a great deal of shouting?”
"Absolutely."
"And Findley will be totally unreasonable."
"As will Gabriel."
He sighed again, wondering how he and Gabriel had managed to persevere for so many years without these types of calamities occurring on a daily basis. But then, Gabriel never seduced chaste innocents. He sought out widows, or unhappy wives, so there'd never been an irate father waiting in the wings.
"I detest emotional scenes."
"So do I, but don't worry"—she slipped her hand into his—"we'll get through it together."
"We
most definitely will not!"
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I'll accompany you."
John assessed her fierce stance, the rigid set of her shoulders. Even though she despised Findley, and he'd abused her horridly, she was ready to leap into battle, never imagining for an instant that she'd abandon John when he might need her.
What a lucky fellow he was! Every morning when he awoke with her snuggled next to him in his bed, he patted 'himself on the back for being so smart
He'd forgotten how satisfying it was to have a female about the house. While he'd enjoyed residing with Gabriel in their bachelor abode, it didn't render quite the same rewards. It was grand to be pampered, to be coddled and scolded, to have someone who noticed him, who fretted if he didn't get enough sleep, or if he stepped out in the cold without a hat.
Such unpretentious worries brought out the best in Mary. She was a natural fusspot, a meddler who encountered problems and fixed them. She advanced, full speed ahead, taking charge and mending what needed to be repaired—including himself and his headstrong son.
How he loved her! "For better or worse," the vows had been written, and he'd plainly wrangled some of the "better" for himself.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, gently kissing her, reveling in his good fortune.
When their lips parted, she stared him down. "You're not about to sweet-talk me out of it"
"I wouldn't dream of it"
"I know how Findley's mind works, John. Let me attend you."
"Chère,"
he said, "stay here. For me."
"But—"
"They'll likely utter hideous remarks to each other, and I don't want you to hear."
"I'm not a child. I won't swoon over a few offensive words."
"I realize that" he said, chuckling. "It's more than the words. Elizabeth is your friend. She'll be the main topic of discussion, and if the conversation's heated, it won't be pleasant"
"That's precisely why I should be present."
"To defend her honor?”
"Someone must."
"I'll see to Elizabeth's
honor
for you." He nestled her tighter. "Mary, temperaments will be at a fever pitch, and I won't provide Findley with any excuse to hurt you."
"I'm not afraid of Findley Harcourt."
"I grasp that"—he kissed her again—"but if he was rude to you, I'd be forced to commit murder."
"You'd be tried and found guilty."
"Hanged for it"
"I'd be a widow."
"Exactly."
"Men!" she complained as he crossed to the threshold without her.
“
Give your son a message for me, will you?”
"What is it?"
"If he doesn't do the right thing by her, he can't continue living with us."
"It’s his house," John said.
"Then
we
shall move out."
"I'll tell him, but I can't guarantee it will have any effect."
John yearned to be mistaken. The older he grew, the more appeal a stable family held for him. The notion of the pattering feet of grandchildren running about was extremely enticing but, while he secretly wished Gabriel would marry the girl, he was convinced it would never happen.
If only he had the authority to command that Gabriel wed! But John was hardly the person to advise another on affairs of the heart He'd never been what one could describe as an expert on romance, and he wouldn't begin to make recommendations on how others should proceed. His own choices—until lately—had been disasters.
He started down the hall, griping to himself: "Why couldn't Gabriel have been a store clerk? Or a farmer? A stodgy, tedious banker..."
Behind him, Mary laughed, and the sound brightened his mood as he descended the stairs and braced for the pending strife. He thought about parlaying with Gabriel first, to warn him and to probe his opinion, but he decided against it. There was very little he could impart to Gabriel as to how he should behave. The younger man wouldn't heed his counsel.
Gabriel was the most obstinate, stubborn individual he'd ever met He'd do as he bloody well pleased, in spite of who was pressuring him, or the fact that someone as exalted as the Earl of Norwich was screaming for his head on a platter.
At this belated juncture, John could only support him by suffering through whatever bad solution was selected, and intervening should Findley be too obnoxious. Findley could be irrepressible and relentless, but then, so could Gabriel. Perhaps Findley had met his match!
The footman who'd announced Findley had followed him down, and as they reached the foyer, John whispered for him to retrieve Gabriel from me studio, to show him Findley's card and inform him that the earl awaited his attendance.
"Make sure," John added, "that he knows I'm here, too, and that if he doesn't arrive in fifteen minutes, I‘ll be out to drag him inside."
The usually stoic retainer smiled discreetly as he walked away. Their employees were conscious of Gabriel's nocturnal haunts and odd daylight habits. They were in awe of his talent and genius, and they did their part to sustain his creativity by strictly obeying his instructions regarding solitude when he was working—which was most of the time.
"When in the midst of an artistic binge, he often didn't surface for days. The servants would inconspicuously deposit trays of food on the porch of the cottage. When he came up for air and emerged, a maid would hurry in to clean the premises so that it would be ready when he locked himself in once more.
If a new composition had captured Gabriel's interest, he wouldn't feel like chattering to Findley, and he'd ignore the summons, which John couldn't allow. This imbroglio had to be resolved.
He entered the parlor, and Findley had discerned his footsteps. Anticipating Gabriel, he whirled around, then he blinked, and blinked again, flustered and striving to make sense of whom he was observing.
John could grasp Findley's bafflement. It had been over twenty-five years since they'd laid eyes on one another, and John had been somewhat of a recluse since returning to England, so few of his former associates were aware that he was home.
John evaluated his venerable nemesis, finding him gray-haired and overweight, but haughty and disdainful as though he was God's gift, and John conceded that he still couldn't abide the man. A single glimpse, and his temper was goaded.
"Preston... ?" As recognition dawned, Findley viewed John with such disgust that John could tell the antipathy was mutual.
"In the flesh."
"What the hell are
you
doing here?"
"I live here.”
"But I'm here to see this ... this painter"—he muttered
painter
as if it was an epithet—"Cristofore."
"He'll join us shortly."
"And your connection to him is ... ?"
"None of your damned business."
John didn't care if Findley learned that he and Gabriel were father and son, but he childishly liked keeping the arrogant prig in the dark.
"So you help him carry out various scams." Findley scoffed. "I should have guessed! This sort of thing is right up your alley."
"What the hell do you mean?" John strolled to the sideboard and poured himself a whisky, but discourteously, he didn't offer one to Findley, intentionally slighting him. He wasn't about to drink with the boor as though they were friends. They weren't.
"You always were a miscreant." Findley frowned at John, then he indicated a satchel he'd placed on the table
.
"I've had Cristofore investigated. I've uncovered several of his dubious swindles. I'm quite sure you two reprobates must get along famously."
"And just what trespass has Mr. Cristofore committed that has you—bastion of virtue that you're renowned to be—so up in arms?"
"He preys on naive women." He puffed out his chest and stuck his nose in the air. Such a pompous knave! "He's a master at seducing them, then stealing their money."
"Really?" John smiled maliciously. "He's a thief of women's purses and hearts, is he?"
"An indisputable brigand."
"What has that alleged exploitation to do with you?”
"Well I..: I.. ." Findley blushed furiously, unwilling to divulge the incentive for his visit, not wishing to impute Elizabeth, and John was humored at watching him squirm.
Findley stammered and strutted, unable to devise a valid motive for calling on Gabriel, so he changed the subject. "Where's Mary?"
The query blindsided John, when he should have been anticipating it. "Upstairs—where she won't have to see your despicable face."
"I can't believe she left my protection, only to wallow in this male lair of immorality." Caustically, he glanced about, as though he might step in something foul and have to wipe it off his shoes.
"She married me because I love her."
"Love, bah!" Findley derided. "As if you understand the definition of the term."
"Since she chose me, and not you," he chided, "I must have some clue."
"As if I'd have asked her!" Findley jeered. "You've certainly come down in the world, haven't you? You were one of the cheekiest lady's men ever—the irresistible John Preston—and you wind up shackled to my housekeeper! Hah! I can't wait to spread the news at my club!" He leaned toward John, leering. "I'm still a member. Are you? Your downfall ought to furnish weeks of laughs."