Trapped at the Altar (37 page)

Gabriel was, in fact, standing opposite the house on Dacre Street, looking up at its impenetrable front, windows and doors firmly closed. He didn't know what he was doing here. He would see her tomorrow, as arranged. Instead, he was jeopardizing everything by standing here in the open, gawking at her house. What if her husband were to find out? Ivor Chalfont was, to all intents and purposes, a Daunt with the same bloodthirsty inclinations of the whole tribe, if Ari was to be believed, and he had no reason to doubt her. She had sent him away for his own protection when she was officially unattached, but it would be so much more dangerous to seek her out now that she was actually married, another man's legal property. Gabriel had no wish to die on the end of Sir Ivor Chalfont's sword.

But he had to admit that the gentleman he had seen did not look in the least like a bloodthirsty outlaw. His features were refined, his figure elegant, although the strength of his frame beneath the magnificent clothes was unmistakable. And he showed a tenderness towards Ariadne that no one could mistake.

As Gabriel stood there, the front door opened, and the maid he had seen yesterday emerged onto the street. She set down her burden, which turned out to be the very small spaniel puppy. As soon as its paws touched ground, it darted forward with an excited yelp, only to be brought up short by the ribbon around its neck.

The maid reined the dog in and started walking along the street, keeping the puppy at her heel. Gabriel hesitated for barely a moment before he started to stroll across the street towards her. “Excuse me, mistress.”

Tilly stopped to stare at her accoster, surprised and wary. “Sir?”

“Forgive me, but I believe you work for Sir Ivor Chalfont and his lady.” He smiled with what he hoped was reassurance. He couldn't believe what he was doing, but he couldn't seem to help himself. He had come so far in his search for Ariadne that nothing seemed too risky anymore.

“And what if I do?” Tilly demanded cautiously. He struck her as a rather shy and harmless young man, but appearances could be deceiving. She jerked the puppy back to heel.

“Pretty little thing,” Gabriel observed, bending to scratch between the puppy's ears.

“Present from the King 'imself,” Tilly declared. “Gave it to my mistress.” She continued to regard him with the same wariness.

“Your mistress must be quite a favorite at court.”

Tilly nodded. “Aye, and she's there this minute, if you must know.” She frowned. “And just what d'you know of Sir Ivor and Lady Chalfont?”

Gabriel hesitated before saying, “I used to know Lady Chalfont once, back in Somerset . . . before she was Lady Chalfont.”

Tilly looked astounded. “You wasn't of the valley,” she stated.

“No. I saw her once or twice when she came up to the cliff.” He offered a placatory smile, improvising rapidly. “She once rescued me from a spring trap. Foolishly, while I was hunting, I wandered across the boundary of my father's farm and strayed onto Lord Nesbitt's land. I didn't know where his gamekeepers set the traps.” He gave a rueful shrug. “I don't know what I would have done if Lady Chalfont, Ari as she called herself then, had not come along.”

Tilly reflected. She knew that Miss Ari frequently stole away from the valley, up the cliff path, despite orders to the contrary. The young man's story was quite plausible and his Somerset accent true enough. She regarded him with her head on one side, her considering gaze shrewd. “Was it you my lady left the note for?”

Gabriel nodded. “I saw her at the theatre the other night, but we weren't able to speak properly, although she did see me. I followed her here, and that's when she left
the note. She wanted to know if I needed anything, if I was new to London and needed any help.”

That sounded like Miss Ari, Tilly decided. If she saw someone she had once known in need, she would offer help. But why was she doing it in secret? It didn't smell right to Tilly, and perhaps, she thought, it would be wise to keep this young man under her own eye. If Miss Ari was getting herself into deep waters, she might need a hand to pull her out. One thing Tilly knew for sure, Sir Ivor would stand for no nonsense if his wife was up to her tricks, however well-meaning. Sir Ivor was not a man to deceive, however innocent it might be.

“And do you need help?” she demanded.

Gabriel shook his head. “Not really, but back in Somerset, I didn't have a chance to thank her properly. She said she had no time to talk and ran off before I could discover anything but her name. Her note said to meet her in the park tomorrow.” He offered a hesitant smile. “I own it will be pleasant to see a familiar face, to talk with someone from back home. London is a big place.”

“That it is,” Tilly agreed. Her eyes were on the puppy, rooting happily in the cracks between the cobbles. She could quite understand what the young man must be feeling. She was homesick herself often enough.

“I know I should wait until tomorrow to see her,” Gabriel said with disarming frankness. “But 'tis Christmas Day, and I miss my family. I thought perhaps if I could just hear a familiar voice, like yours, mistress, I might find it easier to . . . oh, foolish nonsense.” He cut himself off
with a shrug. “I daresay you'll be celebrating Christmas with much merriment. Roast goose, perhaps?”

Tilly nodded. “Oh, that an' all the rest,” she said. “Pies and puddings. Once they come back from the palace, the feast will begin.” She stopped as the puppy squatted on a scraggly patch of grass to relieve herself. “That's a good girl,” she said approvingly, turning back to the house. “I'd best be getting along now, sir. Still a lot to do in the kitchen.”

“Yes, of course.” He half turned to leave. “A Merry Christmas to you, mistress.”

Tilly lifted her hand to the door latch. “And a Merry Christmas to you, sir.” She stood for a moment with her hand on the latch, then said abruptly, “If you've a mind to take your Christmas dinner in the kitchen with us, you'd be welcome, sir. If you've nowhere better to go.”

Tilly was naturally warmhearted, and the man was lonely and homesick and far too thin and pale. He was a Somerset lad, a farmer's boy, although, judging by his raiment, he came from well-to-do farming stock, and whatever his connection with Miss Ari, it gave him the right of Somerset hospitality. There was more than enough to go around in her kitchen. And maybe, Tilly thought, she might pick up some enlightening information as the wine flowed freely at the table.

Gabriel heard himself thanking her, introducing himself, and accepting the invitation, even though his rational self screamed that it was madness. He was walking into the proverbial lion's den. But the temptation to be
under the same roof as Ari was irresistible. She was at the palace right now, and even after she returned, if he stayed in the kitchen, there would be no danger of them meeting. Grand ladies, as Ariadne so clearly was now, did not frequent kitchens. But he might be able to catch a glimpse, maybe even get some inkling of what her life with her husband was like. The servants might talk a little or respond to a gentle prod.

“Come you in, then, Master Gabriel,” Tilly said briskly. “There's a seat by the range and a cup of sack.”

Gabriel followed her into the square hall and through a door at the rear leading down a narrow flight of stairs to the kitchen, filled with the aromas of roasting goose and apples and steaming puddings and a constant mist of flour rising from the long table, where a young girl in cap and apron was rolling pastry for mince pies. For a moment, he was overcome with a wash of homesickness, for the life he had once led in the square Somersetshire farmhouse, where talk of war and rebellion was generally muffled in the tankards of scrumpy and October ale.

Ariadne wondered how long this interminable service in the chapel could possibly continue. The incense was making her head ache, and the monotonous chanting made her want to sleep where she stood, shifting from one foot to the other. But finally, it came to an end, and the Duke and his wife moved out of their box and processed, their retinue behind them, out of the chapel. The rest of the congregation followed suit, all as relieved as Ariadne, as
far as she could tell from the renewed buzz of conversation and the haste with which they pushed through the chapel doors.

The crowd crossed the large central courtyard to the Banqueting Hall. The brisk chill air awoke Ari and banished her headache. A young woman came up beside her and said, “I haven't seen you here before.”

“No.” Ari turned swiftly. “I am but recently arrived in London.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. “Indeed, I know no one but my husband.”

“Oh, you know his majesty well enough to receive one of his prized puppies as a gift, and you know her grace of Portsmouth, it seems, which means you have made your curtsy to her majesty,” the young woman responded. “I would say you've done rather well for such a newcomer.”

Ari looked for the sting but couldn't find it. She laughed. “If you put it like that, madam, then I would have to agree with you. But in truth, it doesn't feel like it.” She tilted her head in inquiry. “I am Ariadne Chalfont . . .” The question mark hung in her voice.

“Madeleine Covington, a very junior lady of the bedchamber to her grace the Duchess of York.” The girl grimaced. “A
very
junior attendant on her grace.”

“A thankless task?” Ari hazarded, reading between the lines. Ladies of the royal bedchambers were always of noble families, but the younger ones were often treated worse than lowly kitchen maids.

Her companion laughed. “You could say that, but you'll keep it to yourself if you're wise. I am to count my blessings and hope for a rich and noble husband.”

Ari smiled her comprehension as they entered the vast Banqueting Hall. The King and his consort were already seated on a raised dais at the far end, and the Duke and Duchess took their places with them. Musicians played in the galleries above, and the long tables in the body of the hall were piled with platters of roast meats and baskets of bread.

Ari looked around for her husband, but it was almost impossible to see anything in the crowd. Velvet, damask, silk, fur brushed past her as she stood at a loss, once more alone. She managed to make out Madeleine Covington standing behind the Duchess of York's chair, but there were no other familiar faces. People were surging to the long benches at the tables, somehow seeming to know where they should sit. Ariadne knew there would be a hierarchy; the salt cellars were very prominently displayed two-thirds of the way down the table. Was she elevated sufficiently to sit above the salt?

Fortunately, before she had to think about testing her position, she felt Ivor behind her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, murmuring into her ear, “Come, we have done sufficient duty for today. No one will look for us in this mob. Let us go home to our own table.”

“Oh, can we?” She looked over her shoulder at him, relief clear in her eyes. “I don't think I can bear another minute of this.”

For answer, he cupped her elbow and eased her out through the clamoring throng to the doors. They edged through the constant stream of servers bearing huge silver platters above their heads, as they dodged
and weaved through the crowd to the tables, and finally reached the blessed cool air of the courtyard.

“What a nightmare,” Ari breathed. “I don't think I could face coming back here, Ivor.”

“You can, and you must,” he responded steadily. “But enough for one day. We're going home.”

A
riadne went into her bedchamber as soon as they reached home and discarded her cloak, gloves, and muff, dropping them on the bed. “Ivor . . . Ivor, could you help me, please?” she called over her shoulder through the open bedchamber door.

Ivor came in at once, unclasping his sword belt. “What do you need?”

“Unlace me and help me out of this gown, please. Tilly will be busy in the kitchen.” She tugged at the front lacing of her bodice. “We're not going out again, and I can't eat in these clothes.”