"As least I was gentleman enough to marry her," John said quietly.
The exchange had strayed into dangerous territory. It was one thing for Findley to denigrate Gabriel—he didn't know of John's and Gabriel's kinship—but it was quite another for him to slander Mary. Perhaps—despite his earlier joking with her—the contemptuous nobleman would be dead before the afternoon was over.
"I'm not like some bounders," he couldn't resist pointing out, though he'd never be so crude as to directly refer to Mary's affair with Findley. "You know the sort, don't you, Norwich? Those cads who would perpetrate any abominable act against a respectable lady, without apology or remuneration?"
Findley paused. If he'd been speculating as to whether Mary had confessed her indiscretions, he had his answer, and wisely, he didn't pursue the topic. Instead, he switched to firmer ground: denigrating John. "Has Mary been apprised of your squalid history?"
"Which part of it?" John asked impertinently.
"When we were younger, you were the biggest scoundrel in town. No man's wife was safe in your company.”
"Especially not yours." John couldn't prevent the jibe from slithering out, even though his conduct with Pamela Harcourt had never involved more than letting her cry on his shoulder.
Findley grimaced, their antiquated feud alive and well. "Now that you've wed, will you rein in your licentious tendencies? Or do you intend to persist in your adulterous copulations with every lightskirt who tickles your fancy? Although, considering Mary's proclivities, perhaps she won't—"
John didn't wait for the rest. He tossed his libation onto the sideboard, stomped across the room, and clutched Findley by the lapels of his coat
"Last time I beat you to a pulp, I was twenty-one years old." He lifted Findley up, the blackguard's toes off the floor, the seams on his jacket straining and popping, "I may be fifty, but I'd relish the opportunity to discover if I possess the vigor for a repeat performance."
"Lecherous bastard!" Findley spat out.
"You haven’t changed a bit, you overbearing toad, presuming you can saunter into my home and insult my wife." He tightened his grip, giving the wretch a hearty shake. "If Mary's name ever crosses your lips again—for any reason—I'll kill you."
Findley had just opened his mouth to retort, and John stiffened, excitedly enthusiastic for whatever moronic comment might dribble out. It had been many years since he'd wildly engaged in a nasty brawl, and he was eager to confer an unbridled thrashing, but Gabriel picked that precipitous moment to arrive.
"Well, well, what have we here?” he sarcastically remarked from behind them as he insolently ambled in. "Now, Father, is that any way to treat a guest? Unhand the man."
John glared over his shoulder at Gabriel, relieved that he'd bothered to don some clothes, but his outfit had to be a far cry from what Findley would have expected for the portentous meeting.
Gabriel had come from the studio, where he'd been painting through the previous day and night, and he looked like a damned gypsy, with those baggy breeches and a loose, flowing shirt that was half-buttoned, the tail hanging out. His hair was swept back and standing on end from his running his hands through it as he concentrated. His fingers and a cheek were smudged with various smears of paint, and he smelled like the turpentine he utilized to clean his brushes.
John was accustomed to Gabriel's disarray, his typical state after a lengthy bout of inspiration, but for this auspicious occasion, he'd outdone himself. He was definitely a sight
What must Findley think of his dishevelment? Bearing in mind the purpose behind Findley’s visit, he’d likely deem Gabriel a lunatic.
There was a fire in Gabriel's eye, a kind of maniacal gleam that John recognized as having developed after hours of lost sleep and intense labor. On edge, restless, jittery, he would be in no mood for nonsense. He'd never been one to dally with idiots—Findley being a prime example—and he had no patience for inanity or balderdash. In his current heightened condition, he'd be even less inclined to endure Findley's bombast.
The conflict hadn't even commenced, and it was shaping up to be a catastrophe. Any fantasies John had harbored about Gabriel marrying, settling down, supplying a houseful of grandchildren, faded into the woodwork. All John could do was to salvage the showdown by keeping it from spiraling into a hideous altercation.
He gave Findley a final shake for good measure, then released him, and the other man stumbled, regained his balance, then whipped around to grimly scrutinize Gabriel. Though they hadn't been introduced, there was no mistaking who he was.
"He called you ...
Father!"
Findley accused, his fury settling on John once more. Aghast, horrified, he straightened his clothes, then brandished a castigating finger.
"You
are this man's father?"
"Yes. Sweet, isn't it?"
"You planned it!"
"What?”
"Why would you? For revenge? For vindication? Out of sheer malevolence? What could possibly matter after so much time has passed?” Findley's face was mottled red with rage, and he spun away from John to confront Gabriel, examining him as though he was a fascinating specimen of insect.
"Mr. Gabriel Cristofore?" he inquired formally.
"Si, signore,"
Gabriel answered, exaggerating his accent.
Findley snorted. "What type of progeny are you, anyway? Have you so little respect for your sire that you don't even take his name?"
John winced with exasperation. Gabriel was touchy about appellations, and he wouldn't kindly suffer the domineering aristocrat's questioning of such a personal decision. While Gabriel was legally a Preston, he honored his mother by using Cristofore, and John had never felt slighted by it. Besides, the Italian surname was much more flamboyant—just as Gabriel was—and they both believed that ii brought in more clients.
"Have you some objection to my name?"
There was a menacing air about him as he converged on Findley. Gabriel was a few inches taller, and he advanced till they were toe to toe. Not cowed by the man's elevated status, he rudely inspected Findley, refusing to back down under me earl's visible antagonism.
Gabriel bounced on the balls of his feet, his years of fencing lessons having increased his agility, and he was disposed to pop off at the smallest provocation. He had a temper that could be easily incited—Findley being exactly the type of clod who could exacerbate it.
In the past, John had intervened in numerous spats that might have resulted in injury to Gabriel's precious hands, so he watched nervously, ready to jump into the middle of the fray the instant it appeared that a fist might fly.
"Why are you here?" Gabriel asked sternly, after giving the earl a thorough once-over but, as he had to be amply cognizant of Findley‘s driving motivation, he seemed exceptionally cool.
Amazingly, Findley was the one who was unnerved by Gabriel's cocky approach. He stepped away, putting more space between them. "I would confer with you privately. On a subject of some urgency."
"Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of my father."
"I would rather not."
"Depart, then." Gabriel shrugged. "It matters not to me." He roved to the sideboard, poured himself a whisky, then lounged on the sofa, sprawling casually and showing no respect for their visitor. He blindly sipped his drink, then gazed at Findley as though puzzled to find him still on the premises. "Are we done? If so, I'd like to return to work."
For his part, Findley stared as if Gabriel was an uncouth savage. "Do you have any idea who I am?"
"Yes,
Lord
Norwich, and I'm busy. You're wasting my time."
"I could break you like that!" Findley loudly snapped his fingers.
"Better men than you have attempted it." Gabriel gestured to John. "Close the door, Father. The earl has something he needs to get off his chest."
"Listen to me, you little bast—"
"Tut, tut, Norwich," Gabriel reproached, cutting him off. "If you disparage me—or my beloved mother—I'll have my footmen throw you out. Bodily."
"You wouldn't dare," Findley huffed.
"Try me."
Findley was fit to explode. No one risked his displeasure by sassing him. The powerful nobleman had been pampered and humored from birth, and wherever he went, people begged for the chance to promptly do his bidding. Effrontery and discourtesy were unheard of.
Briefly, John fretted that Gabriel had pushed Findley too far, but then he remembered that Gabriel had been around men of Findley's ilk his entire life. He knew them well; that's why he loathed them.
"Findley," John said, diffusing the volatile banter, "you can speak candidly. I serve as Gabriel's secretary."
"Why am I not surprised? I'm sure you taught him everything he knows."
"Not
everything,"
Gabriel impudently interjected. "Some things I learned with none of his assistance at all."
John endeavored to arbitrate. "Gabriel and I have no secrets." He skirted Findley and shut the door, then returned to his side and waved toward a chair. "Why don't we sit down, and you can tell us what's wrong."
"I will not
sit
with that scapegrace."
"Fine, then. We'll all stand." John cast Gabriel a quelling look that had no effect. He remained impolitely reposed on the sofa, so John forged on. "What has you in such a dither?"
Findley dawdled, sharing nothing, the sheer intensity of his glower hot enough to burn a hole through the drapes. Gabriel met the stare full-on, not recoiling, not retreating, hut audaciously braced.
The silence became oppressive, then Findley cursed and muttered, "He knows why I'm here." He narrowed his focus. "There's no need to spell it out, is there, Cristofore?"
"No, none." Gabriel smiled maddeningly, and John longed to strangle him.
"She has no money," Findley abruptly mentioned. "She's poor as a church mouse."
"So I was informed. From the very beginning."
"Then why do you persist?"
"Why not?" Gabriel sampled his libation, completely indifferent to Findley's affront. "She's quite lovely."
Findley was so outraged he couldn't reply, but perhaps he was a tad disconcerted, as well. He was infuriated on behalf of his disgraced daughter, permeated by a heavy dose of a father's justified, righteous indignation, yet he wouldn't get so much as a ripple of remorse from the villain who'd accomplished the ruining.
John pitied him. Even if Findley was a buffoon, Elizabeth was a charming girl and worthy of this exhibition of paternal offense.
"Findley, are we talking about your daughter, Elizabeth?" By feigning ignorance, John thought to imbue the discourse with a touch of rationality before it launched into the emotional. "She's been having her portrait done, and I—"
"Shut! Up!" Findley hissed venomously.
"Are you intimating that our children are physically involved?"
"I'm not
intimating
it," Findley declared. "I'm flat-out imputing your son in her utter defilement." Findley turned to John, astounding him with the depth of his wrath. "Your son is a profligate fornicator, a shameful violator of women, a libertine of the worst sort."
"Harsh charges."
"I would hear his defense—with my own ears—before we proceed."
John challenged Gabriel. "What say you to these accusations?"
"I have nothing to add."
"So the earl's allegations are true?" John implored in vain.
"Each and every one," Gabriel admitted, unrepentant.
"Have you any rejoinder?"
"Yes: I make no apologies, and I submit no explanations."
"Filthy scum," Findley seethed between clenched teeth. "I'll see you hanged for this!"
"Findley!" Frightened, John sharply admonished him. Findley was an omnipotent member of the nobility, a peer who could exploit his authority and rank to procure any conclusion he desired. "You'll do no such thing!" But Gabriel was already orating, making his case much more dire.
"But then you'd have to acknowledge what transpired," he said. "How your daughter willingly debased herself. Your prized jewel would be publicly humiliated, ridiculed, and scorned. Your family disgraced." Aggravatingly, he swirled the contents of his glass. "Is that what you want?"
"Findley, calm yourself," John interposed. "We accept the appropriate remedy for Gabriel's conduct. You arrange for the special license, and Mary and I will start planning the ceremony."
"This blackguard"—Findley's vehemence was ghastly—"will
never
marry Elizabeth. I'd murder him with my own two hands before I'd permit it."
"You don't wish them to wed?"
"Never," Findley reiterated.
John was confused. Findley wasn't the type to rail and bemoan his fate. He'd crave action, results. "Then why have you come?"
Findley nodded at Gabriel. "Your son can tell you."
"I believe I can."
"What?" John was bewildered. The two combatants seemed to be conferring in a foreign code to which he wasn't privy.
"The earl is prepared to offer me money to break off with her." Gabriel condescendingly mirrored Findley's acrimonious expression. "Am I close?"