His Favorite Mistress (3 page)

“Hurst, did you say?” She grew still. “I…”

“Yes. Did you know him?”

She shook her head. “No, but…my father mentioned him once. I overheard him say the man was a drunken fool who might…cause him trouble one day. That he might have to…do something about him. I never imagined…oh, God.” She lowered her gaze to the floor, a single tear rolling over her cheek.

“Have you heard enough, or do you need more to convince you?” Tony asked in a quiet tone. “So far Rafe hasn’t said a word in his own defense, but then he doesn’t need to since right is on his side.”

“Stop! Stop speaking. I cannot hear any more. I cannot bear any more,” she exclaimed, turning her head away as if wishing she could hide.

“Yes, Tony, cease,” Rafe stated in an uncompromising tone. “I let you continue because the truth had to come out, but enough now. She has confronted more than anyone ought to be forced to face in so brief a span of time. Release her. She must be weary of being held against her will.”

“If you are certain,” Tony replied, silently agreeing that Gabriella was unlikely to attempt any further violence at this point. As soon as he allowed her to go free, she bolted away, half-stumbling into a chair positioned near one of the room’s night-darkened windows. For a long moment, he watched her cry, wishing he hadn’t needed to be so hard on her. Then, remembering practicalities, he reached across the desk and picked up the gun, moving to set the pistol high onto a bookshelf, well out of her reach.

Rafe crossed to her. “You probably do not wish to speak to me,” he said in a gentle voice, “but may I get you a glass of wine? Or some brandy perhaps, something to ease your distress?”

She shook her head, refusing to meet his gaze as her tears continued to flow.

“A handkerchief, then,” Tony offered, joining them. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled forth a silken square. When she made no move to accept the cloth, he pressed it into her hand.

Moments later, she raised the handkerchief to her face.

“It’s late, and all this has been rather draining,” Rafe said, turning to address Tony. “My thanks for your help, but you might as well go home now. I can see to my niece.”

Until Rafe spoke the words, the recognition that Gabriella and Rafe were related had not fully dawned upon him—though of course it should have, since he well knew that Rafe was Middleton’s illegitimate half-brother.

“No, don’t go!” Gabriella said, raising her face from the handkerchief to gaze at him. Despite her reddened, tear-stained appearance, she was still beautiful, her eyes the dewy color of wild, rain-drenched violets. “That is…I…I suppose it doesn’t matter, since the runners will be here soon enough to take me off to gaol.”

Tony scowled an instant before Rafe did the same.

“What runners? And who said anything about sending you to gaol?” Rafe demanded, asking the same question that came immediately to Tony’s lips.

With clear surprise, she glanced between the two men before fixing her gaze on Rafe. “But I thought…I just assumed that you would have me arrested. I came here tonight with the intention of shooting you. If Mr…. I mean, if Wyvern had not prevented me, I would have killed you.”

“Perhaps,” Rafe said in a quiet tone. “Still, I don’t believe you would have gone through with it. You may genuinely have
wanted
to proceed, to take your revenge and shoot me, but in the end I do not think you would have done so.”

“Why? Do you imagine I don’t have the gumption?” she retorted.

One corner of Rafe’s mouth turned up. “You appear to have plenty of gumption, but I don’t believe you are a killer at heart.”

Her lashes lowered for a moment. “According to the both of you, my father apparently was.”

“Yes, but you are not your father. You are a distinct individual, who is entirely separate and unique from any other. From this moment forward, your actions and your path in life are your own to choose. So I grant you pardon, with no prison and no punishment for your aborted attempt to kill me.”

Gabriella swallowed, her throat tight, almost raw, as she considered Pendragon’s words. She had broken into his home tonight with hatred burning like a brand in her chest, convinced he was the very worst sort of villain—someone who deserved to be cast violently from this earth. Instead, she had discovered he wasn’t at all the man she believed him to be, just as she had found out the same of her father.

Even now, she could scarcely believe what they’d said about him. Surely the man she had known and loved could not have been capable of committing the vile acts about which she’d been told. And yet, had she really known her father, or had she only seen what she’d wanted to see? What she had
needed
to see, given his infrequent visits and casual displays of affection? Had that colored her view of the man? Had it influenced her mother’s perception of him as well? All she knew now was that Wyvern had given her serious reason to doubt the things she had always believed, his words ringing with a harsh yet convincing truth.

And what of Pendragon, the man against whom she had planned to enact vengeance? If her father’s death really had been a case of self-defense, then she had no right to go on hating him. She considered his actions tonight and how he’d made no effort to come to his own defense, letting his friend speak for him as if he had nothing whatsoever to hide. More and more she was becoming convinced he did not—that he was the one innocent of wrongdoing, not her father.

Then just when she’d prepared herself to accept punishment for her attempt against him, he had shocked her once more by showing her the one thing she had not expected at all—kindness. Forgiveness. Compassion. “But why?” she asked, her voice sounding low and strained even to her own ears.

Her uncle met her gaze. “Because I know how it feels to lose everything and everyone you love. To find yourself alone in a world that suddenly seems very big and very cold. My parents died at an early age as well. I remember my own grief and rage, the sensation of wondering if life would ever feel right again.”

Exactly,
she thought with a kind of quiet surprise. She didn’t know how, but he understood, as though he had peered inside her head and read her emotions, her thoughts. Glancing toward Wyvern, she noticed that he’d stepped back as if to give her and Pendragon a bit of privacy. Her gaze met his, sympathy clear in his deep blue eyes.

She looked away.

“Gabriella,” Pendragon said, recapturing her attention. “This may seem unexpected, but you are my blood relation—one of the few I have in this world—and for that reason I would like to make you an offer.”

Wary suspicion rose inside her. “What sort of offer?”

“A home, if you would like it.”

“W-what?”

“Come stay with me and my family. Even with the children, my wife and I have plenty of room, both here in London and at our estate in West Riding. I am unaware of your present living situation, but I assume it is not so comfortable as what we can offer you.”

Her shoulders drew back. “I manage ably enough.” Actually she was barely managing at all these days, living on the last of the money she had obtained from pawning her mother’s jewelry and clothing. Soon, even that small amount would be gone, despite all the measures she and her roommate Maude took to economize.

“Pray do not take offense, since none was meant,” he continued. “I know I can speak for Lady Pendragon when I say that you are most welcome.”

A frown creased her forehead. “But you do not even know me, and from all accounts detested my father. We may be related, but I find it hard to believe you really want me in your home. Are you not worried I might try to do away with you in your sleep?”

Pendragon laughed. “No, for the reasons I already gave you.”

“And what would you expect should I agree? I have no wish to be a servant.”

“Nor would you be. Should you accept the invitation, you would come to us as family.”

“And should I decide to leave?”

He shrugged. “If you find you do not like our home, you may depart at any time.”

His proposal sounded wonderful—a bit too wonderful. Having grown up in a touring company of actors, she was used to making do with whatever came to hand. Being offered a home—and a luxurious one at that—sounded like something from a dream. Still, she had her pride, and no wish to be anyone’s poor relation. She rose to her feet. “Thank you,
uncle,
but I fear I must decline. I…um…have prospects of my own that I plan to pursue.”

“The theater, you mean?”

“Perhaps,” she evaded. “Now, if I truly am free to leave, I believe I shall do so.”

Pendragon nodded. “That, of course, is your choice.”

“Gabriella,” Wyvern interrupted, suddenly reentering the conversation. “Take his offer. Rafe is a good man and only means you well, even if I may think he is acting on foolish sentiment.”

“Ah, now, Tony, you know I am never foolish and rarely act on sentiment,” Pendragon drawled.

“You do since you married Julianna and had those babies of yours.”

A contented smile moved over her uncle’s lips.

For a moment she hesitated, silently reconsidering before forcing herself to discard the idea. “My answer is still no.”

An expression that might have been regret passed over Pendragon’s features, then was swiftly gone. “As you wish. The offer remains open, however. You are always welcome.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “You really aren’t at all as I expected, you know. I am sorry for trying to shoot you.”

He smiled. “My sincere appreciation that you did not.”

Turning, she glanced at Wyvern, then held out his handkerchief. “Thank you for this.” As for all the rest that had passed between them this night—including the scorching memory of his kiss that even now had the power to make her tingle—she decide it best not to comment further.

She watched as his eyes landed for a second on the damp wad of silk in her hand. “Keep it, please. I have more than sufficient and shall scarcely miss that particular one. Now, if you will permit, pray allow me to escort you home.”

Her heart picked up speed; ruthlessly, she willed it to slow. As tempting as the notion of allowing him to accompany her might be, she suspected it would be unwise to let him see where she lived. Plainly he was a gentleman, used to elegance in everything he did. Very likely he would be appalled should he view the shabby boardinghouse where she rented a third-story attic room.

“I will be fine on my own,” she stated. “I know the city and how to reach home safely.”

Wyvern’s raven-dark eyebrows moved together. “Don’t be foolish. It’s nearly two in the morning and whatever you may say, the streets aren’t safe, not even for someone as comfortable with the city as you claim to be. Come, we will go in my coach.”

She shook her head with the barest hint of a smile. “Thank you, but no.” Then before he could prevent it, she sprinted on lithe legs toward the door, dashing into the empty entry hall and disappearing from view.

From across the study, Tony watched in annoyance. Moving fast, he started after her. But Rafe reached out and stopped him with a hand. “Let her go. You’ll only get into another scuffle with her.”

He shook off his friend’s hold. “She deserves another scuffle for acting like a peagoose.”

“She’s no peagoose. Stubborn and willful, mayhap, but as sharp-witted as they come. Dressed in boy’s clothing, I am sure she will meet without harm.”

“You do not know that.”

“I do, since Hannibal is following on her heels, and to his credit she will never detect his presence.”

As Wyvern knew, Hannibal was Rafe’s trusted associate—a combination of servant and friend. Tall as a giant, Hannibal had a habit of scaring people the first time they encountered him, his bald head, as well as the fearsome scar that cleaved one cheek from temple to jaw, enough to give anyone a fright. Luckily, Gabriella would suffer no such anxiety tonight, since Hannibal was indeed far too skilled a tracker to ever be caught in the act.

His shoulders relaxed. “Well, if Hannibal is on her trail, she’ll be safe enough, I suppose.” Still, a part of him wished he’d given her back the pistol. From what he suspected of her current life situation, she might well have need of a weapon for something other than attempting to shoot Rafe. He didn’t like to think of her in trouble, though she had told them she had prospects. For her sake, he hoped they were good ones.

A night watchman called three in the morning by the time Gabriella used her purloined key to let herself into the boardinghouse that stood a few blocks south of the Covent Garden Theater. After relocking the door at her back, she moved up the staircase, careful to tread lightly on the squeaky wooden steps so as not to wake the landlady. Thin-lipped and short-tempered, Mrs. Buckles would use any excuse to raise the rent again, exactly as she’d done last month when Maude made the mistake of cooking some sausages and onions in their room. After complaining about the supposed stench, Mrs. Buckles had threatened to toss her and Maude out, before she’d agreed to take a few extra shillings a month for their room and board.

The air grew increasingly chilly the higher Gabriella climbed, the temperature nearly as cold as the February night by the time she let herself into the attic room. Instantly, warmth surrounded her.

Bless Maude,
she thought,
for adding an extra scoop of coal to the fire.
Although her friend was an actress and often worked late into the evening, Gabriella knew that she must be in bed by now. Slipping out of her borrowed jacket, she draped it over the back of a wooden chair, then turned on a yawn to seek her own slumber.

“For mercy sakes, where have you been!”

Gabriella jumped and nearly let out a scream. Glancing over, she found a nightgown-clad Maude watching her with accusing eyes. Laying a hand over her racing heart, she fought to recover her balance. “Heavens, you scared the life out of me.”

The older woman tsked and wrapped her worn blue woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. “It’s no more than you deserve, creeping in here only a few hours shy of dawn without a word from you beforehand. I was worried something dreadful, imagining all sorts of scenarios involving thieves and scoundrels and the like.”