"Harlot!" She uttered the term aloud then, because it felt so grand to denigrate the unrepentant strumpet, she spat it out again.
If she spread rumors about Elizabeth's downfall, the earl would be angry, but then, he was always angry, so she was no longer concerned as to any backlash. Besides, she would derive such gratification from driving him into a tizzy, and if she could incite the elderly blackguard to an acute rage, perhaps he'd suffer an apoplexy and drop dead.
Dramatically, she pressed a hand to her brow. She would be a magnificent, grieving widow. She'd be so credible; she'd generate such compassion.
"Divorce me, will you, you despicable swine?"
The fool didn't know her very well. She'd murder him
in his bed before she'd let him instigate such a heinous process!
Carelessly, she wet her lips with her tongue, and the taste and smell of him was so potent that she was deluged by his repulsive essence. Lurching for her wineglass, she gulped down the red liquid, but it couldn't allay her queasiness.
The wine swirled in her bloated stomach, mixing with the greasy mutton that she'd eaten at supper. Pacing, she tried to ignore her mounting discomfort, striving to disregard what he'd done, what he'd said, but she couldn't control the conflagration in her mind—or her belly.
She covered her mouth, then reeled to the chamber pot where she retched over and over, emptying herself of the libation, the meal, and him.
"Quit moping. Go out and talk to him."
Mary's voice had John swinging around. "I have no wish to speak with him."
"Liar. You're dying to."
Despite his insistence that he had nothing to say to Gabriel, he was loitering at the window and gazing down on the cottage in the backyard, eager for a glimpse of the wayward scoundrel. As it was a warm July day, no smoke curled from the chimney to denote occupancy, but his link with Gabriel was powerful as ever, and he sensed the boy tucked away inside.
Since his unannounced arrival a fortnight earlier, when John had been out of the house, Gabriel had isolated himself in his lair. The maid who delivered his food and drink reported that the door was locked, that he did not answer the few times she'd knocked, and that when she peeked through the curtain, he was in a painting frenzy.
When he would surface was anybody's guess, which was fine with John.
Inevitably, they had to adapt to what had happened on that long-ago, horrid day, but he hadn't determined how to make amends, how to atone, or to mollify his intractable son so that they could reestablish their former, amiable relationship. Especially now that Mary had reported Gabriel’s having transferred the money to Elizabeth—how she'd ascertained the news was a mystery—John felt honor-bound to mend things between them.
How could he have impugned Gabriel's motives? He knew his son, recognized what a good lad he was deep down. He should have been supportive in Gabriel's scam against Findley Harcourt He should have helped, instead of automatically condemning. From the outset John should have realized that Gabriel would do what was best in the end.
And the money! To have duped such a large amount from an ass like Findley! What an incredible, fantastic denouement!
John was so proud he could barely stand it and sometimes, he felt that if he didn't have the chance to recount every detail of the marvelous ruse, he just might burst Gabriel was the only person with whom he could savor the particulars, but as they were fighting, there had been no one with whom John could crow and laugh over the plot's results.
Mary walked over and kissed him, and as he snuggled her close, she asked, "Any sign of Elizabeth yet?"
"You're awfully sure that she'll show up."
"Just watch," she said. "We'll have ourselves a daughter—and some sweet, precocious grandchildren—before this is all through."
He'd learned not to doubt Mary. The woman was a shrewd judge of human behavior, and a virtual miracle worker. As he peered outside again, he almost hoped that he would behold Elizabeth Harcourt Her appearance might provide the boost of courage he needed to approach Gabriel.
"I'm so glad he's home safe and sound."
"I know you are."
"We've never been separated before."
"It's been difficult for you."
"Yes." To his amazement, tears flooded his eyes, but he didn't hide them. Mary was the rock upon which his life was steadfastly anchored. "Do you think he'll ever forgive me?"
"Oh, you silly man. How could you presume he wouldn't?" Chuckling at his absurdity, she spun him toward the hallway and conferred a gentle nudge. "You have to untangle this asinine feud sooner or later. It might as well be sooner."
She was correct, and he gave her a self-deprecating smile as he headed out to chat with his beloved son for the first time in nearly four months. Judiciously, though, he made a swing through the front parlor where he retrieved a bottle of their premium Scotch whisky and two glasses.
On the cottage stoop, he tucked the decanter of liquor under his arm, braced himself, then briskly knocked. As he'd anticipated, there was no response, so he tried again— and again—before Gabriel's irritated footsteps pounded toward the door. In a temper at being interrupted, he yanked it open.
"What?" he barked, looming into the gap.
"Hello," John said, inspecting him, relishing the view after such a protracted absence. He looked thin. And weary.
"John?" Disbelieving, Gabriel blinked, his vision adjusting in the bright afternoon sunlight
"Of course it's John." He blustered his way inside. "Who were you expecting? The chimney sweep?"
Gabriel hovered on the threshold, staring at John as if he was a chimera, and John was exhilarated that he'd had the resolve to breach their rift.
"You don't mind if I come in, do you?”
"No, no." He was hesitant, obviously wondering if he was in for another dressing-down.
During their final conversation before Gabriel had left London, John had pulled no punches, so the lad likely had fortified himself to endure more acrimony. Gad, he might even be worrying that John would toss him out. From his very own house!
If that was his thinking, how brave he'd been to come home! And how ashamed John was for having made him feel unwelcome!
Ultimately, Gabriel's curiosity got the better of him, so he followed John in, analyzing him. Tentatively, he inquired, "What did you want?”
"I'm here for our celebratory drink."
"What drink?”
"You haven't been gone that long that you'd have forgotten."
"I haven't forgotten. I just didn't suppose you'd care to—"
He couldn't finish the sentence, but John could surmise the rest: With their differences unsettled, why would John go to the trouble?
John plunked the whisky and the glasses down on Gabriel's workbench, then he filled them to the rim and passed one to his son. Raising his, he proclaimed, "To Findley Harcourt—for being such an idiot."
The frivolous ritual was one they'd engaged in often over the years, toasting a mark for his gullibility, saluting their success, congratulating themselves on a job well done.
Gabriel examined him, clearly unable to trust that John would initiate such a gesture. He searched for equivocation, for lack of sincerity, but detected only genuine fondness.
A slow grin curved his lips, and he lifted his own glass. 'To Findley Harcourt. For being such an uncompromising nitwit."
"To his arrogance."
"To his stupidity."
"To all his lovely money."
"Aye. To all his lovely, lovely money."
"Fai il bravo!"
John beamed. "Good for you!"
"Grazie."
"Alla tua salute."
"Salute!"
"Come nuovo"
—good as new—John murmured, smiling at his son, and just like that, it was as though they'd never been parted.
Elizabeth sucked in a deep breath, mustered her lagging fortitude, then banged the knocker to Gabriel's home. A pretty maid in a gray dress answered.
Elizabeth extended her card and explained, "I am Lady Elizabeth Harcourt. Might I call on Mr. Cristofore?"
The girl curtsied attentively but, on hearing Elizabeth's identity, her smite wavered, and she shifted nervously. "Beggin’ your pardon, milady, but Mr, Cristofore isn't taking guests."
"He's painting, is he?"
"Why, yes, ma'am," she replied
a
tad too heartily. "That's exactly it. He's much too busy for socializing."
"When might he be available?"
"I can't rightly say. Perhaps in a. few weeks?"
"I could pen a note," Elizabeth suggested acerbically, "requesting an audience with his exalted self."
The girl didn't catch Elizabeth's sarcasm. "That might work," she said helpfully.
Elizabeth stared her down, and the maid flushed a brilliant red. "You're a horrid liar, miss,"
"Yes, I know."
"You have orders not to let me in, don't you?"
The servant gaped at the floor and fiddled with her skirt. "I'm sorry."
Elizabeth had never been more embarrassed, and she blushed worse than the pitiable maid..
Well, what had she expected? She'd never imagined this would be easy. Pride was a difficult tonic to swallow, and she'd never enjoyed its bitter taste.
"Are Mr. and Mrs. Preston in?"
"They've gone out for the day."
She sighed. "When they return, tell them that I've arrived in town."
"I will."
"Advise them that I'm staying at the Carlysle Hotel. Can you remember?"
"Absolutely, milady."
Elizabeth had nothing to add, and no reason to tarry, so she'd turned to go, just as Gabriel waltzed into the corridor. Their eyes met, and she couldn't decide who was more astonished, him or her—or the maid.
"Why, look, milady," the servant sheepishly pointed out, "it seems that Mr. Cristofore has completed his painting early."
"It certainly does."
The three of them froze, the silence awkward.
Elizabeth had replayed this moment a thousand times, and the reality was totally divergent from her fantasies.
In each of those—some tame, some not—he would sweep her into his arms, would administer a handful of passionate kisses, her sins against him would be forgiven, and they'd begin again.
Oh, how wrong she'd been!
Urbane, charming, he coolly assessed her. Apparently, he was about to rush off to an engagement, so he was poised and polished to impress, his verve and animated charisma shielded behind his elegant clothes. He wasn't happy to see her in the slightest. If anything, he was irked that he would now be delayed to deal with the unpleasantness created by her unannounced visit
Drawing nigh, he dismissed the retainer, and she fleetly disappeared down the hall. They were alone, and he was so close that she could smell the starch in his shirt, the soap with which he'd bathed.
"Hello, Gabriel."
"Lady Elizabeth," he said, killing her with formality.
"It's been a long time," she offered lamely, nervous about breaking the ice, but he made no rejoinder, which only served to make the encounter more degrading.
Puzzled, he focused in on her. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you."
"Are you with child?" he baldly probed, analyzing her stomach.
"No."
"Then why?"
With his sentiments scrupulously masked, it was hard to infer his thoughts or feelings, but from how he was glaring at her, she plainly had about two seconds to speak her piece. The situation was much more dire than she had counted upon!
"I wanted to thank you for the money."
"You're welcome."
"And I’m sorry about... that last day. I was angry and I—"
"Apology accepted," he interjected before she could expound.
Off balance from his abruptness, she hastily regrouped. "When my father discovered our affair, he must have pressured you unmercifully, so I apologize for his conduct, as well."
He didn't affirm this subsequent expression of regret Absolution for Findley Harcourt—if it was ever bestowed— would be a long way off.
Finally, he posited, "Will there be anything else?"
She yearned to confess some of the wrought-up emotion that her receipt of his beautiful painting had unleashed, but his demeanor evinced no display of affection, so there was naught she could mention that would pierce his imperturbable facade. Any admission of mawkishness would be totally misplaced, and she would feel as if she was explicating confidential secrets to a stranger.
Downhearted, she muttered, "I guess not"
"Well, then"—he motioned outside, politely indicating that her time was up—"I'm late for an appointment, so I won't keep you."
Crestfallen at the rebuff, she stepped over the threshold. What could she say? What could she do? She'd irrationally convinced herself that, in the period they'd been separated, he'd missed her as much as she'd missed him but, as usual, she'd thoroughly misconstrued the circumstances.