He was very aware of Jessica’s hand on his arm. He knew, though he did not turn his head to look, that since removing her mask she had become the cool, poised, aristocratic Lady Jessica. He was aware too that the loud sounds of merriment that had succeeded the unmasking were dying down slightly in their immediate vicinity.
Manley’s handsome face, framed by becomingly graying hair upon which sat a jeweled crown, had paled. His jaws had clamped together—to prevent him from gaping, perhaps.
A definite quiet had fallen upon the crowd around them now, and Gabriel sensed that other people were drawing closer to see what was happening.
“It cannot be.” The words barely passed Manley’s lips. “No.”
“But yes,” Gabriel said. “It can be. And it is.”
Manley’s wife set a hand on his arm. Gabriel could not for the life of him remember her name. She had always been a shadowy figure, along with Philip’s wife. And his aunt too. Women were not highly regarded by most of the Rochford men.
“Manley,” she said, her voice noticeably shaking. “He isGabriel.”
Manley shook off her arm with open impatience. His nostrils flared. His eyes blazed. “You aredead. This man is an impostor.” He pointed a finger at Gabriel and took one wild look about the crowd, as though searching for an ally. “Marjorie, we are leaving.”
Marjorie.That was her name.
“Papa?” Anthony Rochford said. “This is Mr. Thorne. The man from America I told you about. Mama?”
“Actually,” Gabriel said without taking his eyes off Manley, and he knew now that he had a rather large and avidly listening audience of the cream of society, “I was born with the name Rochford.GabrielRochford. I kept that name until I sailed for America thirteen years ago.”
The reaction was worthy of any melodrama. There was a gasp followed by loud murmurings followed in turn by frantic shushing noises.
“Papa?” Anthony Rochford sounded close to panic now.
Manley ignored him. He was having a bit of an onslaught of panic of his own, Gabriel guessed. But he mastered his emotions with a visible effort. He thrust back his shoulders and continued to point a now shaking finger at Gabriel. He looked rather magnificent, actually, with his crown glinting in the candlelight from the chandelier overhead. All he needed to complete the picture was Excalibur clutched in his hand.
“This man,” he said, addressing the crowd, which must have swelled to consist of almost every guest at the ball. “This man, who changed his name and hid away in America, as well he ought, for thirteen years, has now been driven by ambition to consider it worth the risk of returning at the last possible moment to claim his birthright. I am here to stop him in the name of justice.”
“You may try, Manley,” Gabriel said. He was surprised by how little hate he felt for his cousin, who would have sent him to the gallows thirteen years ago and would do it again now. He felt only contempt.
“This man,” Manley said. “ThisGabriel Rochfordis amurderer.”
There was another wave of sound. Manley waited for it to subside, as it soon did. No one wanted to miss a word. He took a step forward, leaving his wife and son slightly behind him. He knew how to play to an audience, Gabriel thought appreciatively.
“This man,”Manley continued, “ravished the young and innocent daughter of a neighbor of the Earl of Lyndale, his uncle, and left her in disgrace and with child. When confronted by the young lady’s brother andmy dear friend, Gabriel Rochford murdered him. He shot him in the back.I witnessed him doing so, though I was too far away, alas, to stop him. Is there a worse or more cowardly crime than to shoot an unarmed man in the back?”
The cream of society obviously did not think so. The murmur this time was uglier. Equally ugly glances were being directed Gabriel’s way.
“He escaped,” Manley said, “before my cousin, the earl, could have him apprehended. A sure admission of guilt.”
“Perhaps we can take this discussion elsewhere,” the loud, overcheerful voice of Lady Farraday said. “Perhaps—”
Manley ignored her. So did everyone else.
“This man should be seized now,” he said, “before he can escape again. Gabriel Rochford is a dangerous man and worthy only of a dark prison cell until he can hang by the neck until he is dead.”
The murmurings were becoming a little louder and a little uglier. The situation was about to turn downright nasty. At any moment now, Gabriel thought, he was going to be tackled and brought down on the ballroom floor, his arms pinioned behind his back. Perhaps it was only social etiquette and the presence of ladies—several of whom looked just as outraged as their men, however—that had prevented its happening already.
“I find it a little strange, Manley,” Gabriel said, and the need to hear what he had to say outweighed the urge to prevent him from fleeing. Silence fell almost immediately. “I find it strange that you saw me shoot Mr. Orson Ginsberg,my friend, in the back. Of course, by your own admission you were some distance away and were perhaps mistaken about the identity of the murderer. You were the only witness, were you?”
“I was not,” Manley said. “My cousin was with me.Yourcousin too. Mr. Philip Rochford.”
“Ah,” Gabriel said. “ThelatePhilip Rochford, that would be.”
“He reported what he saw,” Manley said, “to a number of people, including the earl, his father, and representatives of the law. You made a grave mistake in coming back to England,Gabriel Rochford. If you believe your prospects will protect you—”
“I find it strange,” Gabriel said, cutting him off, “because I know of two other witnesses who are willing to swear, in a court of law if necessary, that I was nowhere near the scene of the murder at the time it was committed.”
