Rose patted her hand. “I realize acknowledging these matters is difficult, Gabriella. You’ve only been wed a few short weeks, but the sooner you accept reality, the easier your life shall be.” She leaned in and lowered her voice so their other sister, Claire, and her husband wouldn’t overhear. “While it’s not widely accustomed to speak of such things, just know I am here for you, darling.”
A veil of red blurred Gabby’s vision. She breathed in through her nose and held her breath to a count of four before releasing it, even managing a smile of her own, as fraudulent as it was—she wasn’t so good an actress to pull off anything near genuine. “How generous of you, Rose. But rest assured I shall be fine.”
“Ladies, your lemonade,” Stanford said suddenly appearing. “It is a madhouse out there,” he said smiling.
Claire stepped into view. “So, Huntley is off again, hmm?”
“He said he had a crisis.” Rose’s disdain was not eloquently delivered. Nor so quietly, though Claire had likely heard the entire exchange.
In fact, Gabby was distinctly aware of the sudden stillness in the box, and another wave of embarrassment rippled over her. She stood and took up her wrap. “I do believe I’m ready to leave.”
“Of course, my dear. Huntley asked that Stanford and I see you home.” Her hesitation confirmed it, Rose truly didn’t wish to leave.
Claire’s eyes moved from Gabby to Rose then back to Gabby. “Don’t fret, Rose. Beaumont and I had already decided to depart. We shall be happy to escort Gabriella.”
Rose’s gaze swept the theater before coming back to Gabby. It wasn’t often her eldest sister was able to see and be seen. Her resentments with her husband had increased over the years—as Rose so indelicately put it: he was just a baron. Perhaps leaving the two alone was for the best. Rose tipped her head. “That will be acceptable. You should be home to greet your husband when he returns,” Rose said in that condescension, Gabby had abhorred her entire life.
She managed a dignified exit without losing her temper.
Perfect, she thought, mentally ticking one more mark against the one person she’d imagined the man of her dreams.
Six
Dear Rebecca. Tis true, our efforts are small compared to the mountain we climb, yet, I vow, we shall prevail. We’ve much to do. Yrs. G
James was too frustrated to confine himself in his coach and had the driver follow him instead. Storming through the darkened streets at such an hour was asinine. Perhaps it had something to do with James’s notes on Lord Martindale’s youngest son, Fulton. Liverpool’s pick for James’s protégé. He was a smart young man who still required lessons in reining in a quick temper. Though Fulton had failed in his latest task of learning something of Bentick, but James had faith in the young man’s tenaciousness. Unfortunately, Bentick possessed the least amount of scruples of anyone in the ton.
James huddled deeper within his greatcoat. It didn’t prevent the putrid stench of the Thames from reaching him, but he’d smelled worse during the Peninsula Wars.
The only thing specific about Liverpool’s untimely missive was that he awaited James at Thatched House Tavern for their quick assignation. It would be busy at this hour, but with the season in full swing, it would be less crowded than in a couple of hours hence. Regardless, the man had likely secured a private dining room.
He should have sent Reg back with his own message “this could wait.” But the note sounded urgent. And, there was still that cryptic message his kidnapper’s crony had thrown out. He’ll take it out on your ladywife. There was an underlying panic simmering just below his skin that chilled him through.
A feeling not unlike that which he’d experienced when he’d overseen dispensing medics to Walcheren Island in the debacle of 1809. What he’d seen and experienced at that time still haunted his dreams. The disease, the fevers, the filth. The death.
Over eight thousand lives had been lost. The very fact he’d survived had opened doors for him, and in the most undesirable situations possible. That was his main reason for allowing Liverpool to pull James back into the darkness.
All those deaths deserved honor in someone remembering and assuring nothing similar ever happened again. He shook away the memories, wishing he could shake away the image of his wife stealing into their theater box from that darkened hallway. The ladies’ retiring room was not located in that direction. The erratic shifting of his pulse made him lightheaded. He drew in a sharp breath, wincing at the stench, and let it out slowly through pursed lips, forcing himself to remain cognizant of his surroundings. To not do so, was incredibly dangerous.
A few minutes later, James let himself in through the grand entry of Thatched House. A cacophony of voices rose to the vestibule’s high ceilings, bounding about where nothing was immediately decipherable. He located the private dining chamber and nodded to the attendant standing guard.
“Lord Huntley?”
With James’s sharp nod, the attendant opened the door and announced him.
James slipped inside and Liverpool poured a couple of fingers of whiskey in a glass and indicated the chair across from where he sat. The room was large, and cold, and much too big for two people.
James took the chair and the glass. He knocked back the contents and slammed the glass down none too gently.
“Where is Fulton? Shouldn’t he be here?”
Liverpool shook his head. “This is a private matter, regarding Welton. Remember him?”
“Of course. I also remember you telling me he was your new protégé at the time.” James recoiled at the memory of fresh stab wounds, the massive amount of blood.
Liverpool barked out a harsh laugh. “Don’t tell me, you truly believed I would trust an imbecile of Welton’s intellect with state secrets? I was jesting. I had no notion you would see Welton that morning.”
The urgent message, yanking James from the warmth of his wedding bed that sent him rushing to Vauxhall. He grimaced. “It appears you left that part out.”
