“Yes,” he said. “Have it done—and make sure the tailor brings whatever can be altered easily enough. I fear the boy has few enough garments of his own already.” Just the contents of that small burlap bag Claire had carried with her, and that had been both clothingandtoys. He wondered absently how long it had been since he’d had anything new, sinceClairehad had anything new.
He doubted she would spend her hard-earned wages on herself over her son. And her gowns, while clean and in good repair, were several seasons out of date.
“I’ll inform Mrs. Hotchkiss when I’ve made the appointment with a tailor,” Bradshaw said.
“Do,” Gabriel replied. “And inform me as well, if you please, Bradshaw.” Somehow he did not expect that Claire would take kindly to his heavy-handed managing. A woman like her, who had become accustomed to handling her own affairs, might very well resent his interference. Managing a woman who was herself used to managing others promised to be a tricky situation indeed.
∞∞∞
Westwood arrived later in the afternoon, shortly before tea time, no doubt in a flagrant attempt to secure an invitation to dine. There was something indefinably smug lurking in the man’s expression as he slid through the library door, and Gabriel suppressed a groan of annoyance.
“Get it over with,” he invited tightly.
“You asked me to come,” Westwood said immediately, that smirk of satisfaction sliding to the fore. “Youaskedmeto come.” He snagged a decanter of brandy from the sideboard and slung a measure into a glass. “This is a momentous occasion, Leighton.”
“Had I another option,” Gabriel said, “I assure you, I would have taken it.”
“Well, you can’t lay the blame for that atmydoor,” Westwood said, sinking into a chair. “If you’ve driven away all your other friends, you’ve no one to blame but yourself.”
“We’re not friends,” Gabriel growled. “We’re acquaintances at best.” But the correction did nothing at all to smother the satisfaction on Westwood’s face. The man’s insufferable good humor aside, Gabriel supposed he owed Westwood some measure of gratitude, and if he wanted to gloat over it, it was little more than a minor irritation.
Swirling the liquor in his glass, Westwood asked, “So. To what do I owe my invitation?”
Gabriel scrubbed at his face, debating how much to tell Westwood of his predicament. It was bad enough that Westwood was already privy to his precarious health, and though he could not know the true extent of his malady, Gabriel had spent so much of his life concealing it to the best of his abilities that it seemed unfathomable to share the truth of his condition with anyone. But he supposed Westwood might be trustworthy, after a fashion—he’d heard not a whisper of what Westwood had personally witnessed, and a man in possession of both a wife and two notoriously gossipy sisters-in-law would have to be doubly careful with what he revealed to them. So perhaps if Westwood had indeed kept secret what he had witnessed, he might be prevailed upon to keep quiet Gabriel’s current situation.
“I find myself in need of staff recommendations,” he said. “Namely, a nursery maid and a governess.”
Westwood coughed as the brandy he’d imbibed violently disagreed with him. “You have achild?” he inquired.
“Myhousekeeperhas a child,” Gabriel corrected. “The boy is of somewhat delicate health due to a lung complaint. I thought it best to remove him from where he was being boarded in Spitalfields. The air is cleaner here.”
“You thought itbest,” Westwood repeated inanely. “You thought itbestto bring a child into your home. For God’s sake—d’you know what people will say of it?”
“Yes,” Gabriel snarled, “which is why I didn’t take out a bloody advertisement.” He raked his fingers through his hair, disheveling the dark strands. “I had thought that perhaps you could assist me with making some discreet inquiries, or apply for recommendations to your sister. Have I misjudged you, then?”
Westwood shook his head. “No,” he said. “I suppose I can apply to my sister for a recommendation, but—what the hell am I to tell her? She’s a meddler; she might think I’m secreting away a bastard child of my own.” He blew out an aggrieved breath. “She could very well think I’ve got a mistress somewhere, and she and my wife are as thick as thieves.”
Gabriel very nearly scoffed. No one would think Westwood had a mistress; the man was revoltingly devoted to his wife. “Tell her you’re asking for a friend,” he said, though the word caught in his throat.
Westwood scowled. “Thatwould open up inquiries as to why thisfrienddid not take out an advertisement or apply to her directly,” he said. “Come, now, Leighton—surely you can give me more than that. You ask for my help, but withhold information. And you’ve never, in all the time I’ve known you, given the faintest indication that you might be moved to such generosity. Whythischild, then?”
Thishad been exactly what Gabriel did not want—Westwood, poking his nose where it did not belong. And yet…the temptation to unburden himself rose within his chest, unfurling like a flag of surrender. It was true enough that he had no one close to him that he could claim friendship with, that he had internalized his struggles to the point of madness. And Westwood—well, he was as irritating as ever, but perhaps he could be trusted.
Gabriel shoved himself out of his seat, stalking toward the sideboard for a fortifying glass of brandy. Unburdening oneself was thirsty work. “Can you keep a confidence?” he asked on a sigh, pressing his fingertips to the bridge of his nose.
“I should say so,” Westwood said. “Else all of London would be gossiping about your swooning spell.”
Gabriel pinned him with a glare. “I’m in earnest,” he said.
“As am I,” Westwood replied. “I daresay I’ve kept more than one secret close to my chest.”
Gabriel threw back the remainder of his brandy, relishing the burn of the liquor down his throat. “I might have had a wife,” he said.
“Might?” Westwood repeated. “Youmighthave had a wife? How does onepossiblyhave a wife?”
“Onepossiblyhas a wife when one has suffered an accident which has relieved one of significant portions of one’s memory, and thus the truth of the matter has been erased from one’s mind,” Gabriel said, gesturing vaguely with his glass.
Westwood fell silent, his brows drawing together. “I suppose,” he offered hesitantly, “that this might have been around the time you became an unmitigated arse and fell out with your friends?”
