He wondered if this was the time to tell her. Looking into her clear, cornflower eyes, he felt a clench of fear. Gabriella was his only anchor in this strange place. What if he told her he didn’t remember being this Adam, her husband? What if hewasn’tAdam and this was all some bizarre mistake?
His gut told him that he didn’t belong in this world of comfort and luxury. It felt too foreign: this beautiful room…this beautiful female. If he’d had to make a wager about himself, he’d lay down money that his origins were less refined. Even in his present state, there was a covetousness in him, a thieving hunger for the finer things that surrounded him. They felt as if they didn’t belong to him, as if they could be ripped away at any moment…
Out of nowhere, a tunnel of darkness closed around him, choking his lungs with the memory of smoke and soot. He coughed and coughed, the water rushing back up.
“There, there.” Gabriella blotted his face with a scented handkerchief, seemingly unconcerned that he’d puked all over the expensive coverlet. “Feeling better?”
“I don’t…I don’t remember anything.”
The words left him reflexively, like a final emptying heave that he couldn’t contain. Seeing the spasm on Gabriella’s face, he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. She was his light in the gloom; he couldn’t afford to lose her. With a certainty that he couldn’t explain, he knew that she was the key to his survival…at least until he could figure out who the bloody hell he was.
“Dr. Abernathy is the physician who attended to you,” she said gently. “You were shot, my darling, then hit your head and fell into the Thames. If Mr. Murray, your business associate, hadn’t rescued you, you could have…” Her eyes glimmered with an emotion that caused his heart to stutter. Visibly collecting herself, she went on, “The doctor said that memory loss is not unusual, given the trauma you suffered. But you’re not to worry, Adam. Given rest and time, your memory will come back. The most important thing is that you mustn’t push yourself too hard.”
“My name is Adam?” he pressed. “You are certain of this?”
You’re certain thatIam your husband?
“You are Adam Garrity.” The pride in her voice was unmistakable. “One of the most successful businessmen in all of London. You and I have been married for eight years. We have two children, Fiona and Maximillian.”
Christ…I’m a father?
Reeling, he stammered, “H-how old are they?”
“Fiona is seven, Max five. They’re chomping at the bit to see you.” She brushed her fingertips against his jaw, the tender touch quickening his pulse. “You can see them when you’re ready.”
He didn’t know if he was ready to face the small humans he’d apparently sired. Being a father was too much to contemplate on top of everything else. Questions tumbled through his brain.
And Gabriella—she had the answers.
“Do I have other family? Parents? Siblings?” he asked.
She chewed on her plump bottom lip. Her mouth was a deep, natural coral. “You weren’t one to speak about the past. I’m afraid I don’t know very much.”
“Tell me what you know,” he said urgently.
“Your mama died when you were young. Your father had left her soon after their marriage, and you never knew him.” As he absorbed that information, she said hesitantly, “You grew up in the streets of St. Giles, and I believe you were part of a…gang.”
The fact that the news didn’t come as a shock was telling. Indeed, itfeltright. As he’d suspected, he hadn’t been born into his present circumstances, a silver spoon stuck in his mouth. His survival instincts were too keen, as if he’d had to fight for everything his entire life. Even now, in this uncanny situation, he had an alley cat’s mentality.
Land on your feet, assess for danger, and claim your territory.
“You’ve risen above your origins.” Gabriella sounded a bit defensive, as if she’d misinterpreted his silence for shame. “You’re a self-made man and a great success.”
“What sort of business am I in?” He scanned for any memory of his so-called success and came up empty. The notion of being a merchant or professional man just didn’t sit right.
“The business of loaning funds,” she replied.
Her meaning sank in.
“I’m a bleedingmoneylender?”
“Amongst other things.” She primly folded the handkerchief into a neat square. “You believed in what you termed ‘diversification.’ Your holdings include many properties and investments in industrial ventures and the like. I don’t know all the details—you preferred to keep business matters out of the domestic sphere—but I’m sure Mr. Henry Cornish, your solicitor and man-of-business, could fill you in. And Mr. Wickham Murray, your trusted right-hand man, has been looking after the moneylending side of things in your absence.”
It struck him that he, Adam Garrity, was not merely plump in the pocket, he was as rich as Croesus. Properties and investments?Diversification?Only a toff who was truly wealthy (and, let’s face it, a might pretentious) would use a word like that. As for the fact that he’d made his fortune through usury…it didn’t bother him.
Not one bloody whit.
A moneylender didn’t force people to take his money. He was doing a service and at no small risk for those who borrowed from cent-per-cents were not what one would call a reliable sort. If some cull wanted to hand over his vowels, who was Adam to complain?
