The words struck Adam like fists of sunshine. Warmth exploded through his chest, a confounding contrast to his cold rage. He exhaled sharply, reminding himself that what went on between him and his wife was no one’s business. Least of all his employee’s.
“I am capable of looking after myself,” he said in glacial tones.
“That’s beside the point.” Murray shook his head. “You’re a lucky bastard to have a wife as devoted as Mrs. Garrity. And to throw that away on—”
“On what?” Adam said with pounding fury.
“On whatever it is you do at Mrs. Wilde’s Club,” Murray said flatly.
Red flashed across Adam’s vision. Not being a fool, he’d realized that his visits to Jeannette’s establishment would not go unnoticed. Although his employees were discreet, gossip always found a way to surface. He didn’t give a damn what others said or thought about his visits to the bawdy house. What he did care about was Murray’s bloodytemerity. The bastard had some nerve accusing Adam of infidelity and casting himself in the role of Gabriella’s protector.
Gabriella is mine.
“You presume to lecture me on my marriage?” he said with lethal softness.
“Mrs. Garrity has been kind to me. I don’t want to see her get hurt.”
As Murray faced him squarely, like some bleeding knight fighting on Gabriella’s behalf, rage decimated Adam’s self-control.
“My wife’s welfare is none of your damned business.” Adam fought to keep his voice even—and the impulse to plant a facer on the bastard. “The same applies to my private affairs. Remember your place, Murray, or I’ll have to remind you.”
Before Murray could reply, a blue light streaked like a comet across the sky.
“The signal,” Kerrigan shouted. “Hoist the anchor, lads! We’re going in!”
8
“It’s cold in here,”Curtis Billings grumbled from his cozy seat by the fire. “Is your husband too much of a skinflint to heat this palace of his?”
Gabby kept her smile patient despite the fact that her father had been complaining about something or other since his arrival to see the children’s play. They were in the spacious sitting room of the nursery, fires roaring in the double hearths. The other guests, the Strathavens and the Actons, whose children would also be performing, were milling about. Being good friends and considerate guests, they were giving Gabby space to deal with her father’s cantankerous mood.
“Would you like more blankets?” she asked. “I could have some fetched—”
“I’m already wrapped up tighter than an Egyptian mummy,” her papa said.
He wasn’t wrong. His thin frame was engulfed by the warm woolen layers. Even though Gabby visited her father at least once a week, she’d been surprised by how gaunt he’d become, the sunken hollows of his cheeks and pallor of his skin. The few remaining strands of his grey hair clung like seaweed to his age-speckled pate.
With thrumming worry, she said, “Perhaps you’d like something to eat? Chef Pierre has a wonderful soup—”
“I ate before I came.” He harrumphed. “A good, sturdy English meal.”
“Something hot to drink, then. I’ll get you a nice cup of the posset—”
“I don’t need posset,” he said crossly. “I need a minute with you. Sit down.”
Flummoxed, Gabriella obeyed. She couldn’t recall the last time her father had voiced a desire to spend time with her. Or if he’d ever done so. Growing up, she’d always longed for his presence, but the bank had demanded most of his time. Now he was finally here…and might soon be taken away from her.
Sorrow and dread tightening her throat, she placed a hand over his. “I’m here, Father.”
He pulled his hand away to adjust the blankets, clearing his throat. “Where is your husband?”
“He had, um, urgent business tonight,” she mumbled.
Father looked around the nursery, his brows rising as he took in the large, curtained stage at the other end of the room. “Are you certain that he’s not just avoiding the circus?”
Gabby could see what he meant. Fiona’s play had become quite the production.
Ever since Gabby, the Strathavens, and the Actons had taken their collective offspring to see a performance at Sadler’s Wells, the children had been bitten by the theatre bug. Fiona, Gabby’s seven-year-old, had been particularly enamored of the experience and had declared her intention to stage her own productions.
