“As much as I can be. She didn’t react abnormally if that is what you are asking.”
“I suppose that shall have to suffice.” James moved back across the room and poured out another couple of fingers of whiskey and handed Lars his glass. “We shall just have to hope for the best.”
“Do you mind if I inquire what is going on, my lord?”
Lars and James went back years. Their years on the peninsula, their travels to Asia. All bespoke of their longtime relationship. If there was anyone James trusted, it was this man. “A young woman went missing from Drury Lane and Liverpool suspects Lady Huntley as being involved.”
But for the disbelief on Lars’s face, James would have laughed. “Lady Huntley is suspected of kidnapping?”
“Certainly not.” James was quick to reassure. “He thinks her involvement is inadvertent. I, however, am inclined to keep her busy enough she can’t get into trouble.” Especially after hearing the confession of her school day antics. He saw no reason in taking chances.
Twenty-One
Gabriella’s attempt to rest was for naught. She paced from the window to the door to the sitting room, around the bed, and back again. Until she’d worn out the Persian rug beneath her feet. What on earth would compel Huntley in having her followed? Because that was the only explanation. Had Sebastian mentioned Hope House to Huntley? Even were that the case, it didn’t explain why Huntley would have her followed. Gabby had no doubt of Rebecca not sharing her and Rebecca’s philanthropic endeavors. All three sisters would heartily disapprove for various reasons. On and on, the thoughts bombarded her until Gabby thought her head would explode.
And here she’d believed her husband’s attachment to her was growing—that rogue! He was using his seduction skills to distract her, and fool that she was, she’d fallen for it like a water-weighted log in a landslide.
She glanced at the ornate clock on the mantel then rang for Brita. She couldn’t very well cower in her bedchamber all evening. That was no way to garner information. She just wasn’t sure her skills for treading the boards were sufficient enough in quelling the ire engulfing her.
Brita entered the room a couple of minutes later. “Oh, my lady. I thought you were still napping.”
Gabby waved out a hand. “I am eating in tonight. Madam Bovine’s assistant is delivering my dress for the Faulk’s musicale.” She suspected Huntley would be staying home as well, now that she realized he was watching and having her watched, but two could play at his game. She would not be bested. “Please help me change for supper, then have a tray sent up with some cakes. I suspect the madame’s assistant will be famished. Those girls work their fingers to the bone.”
Once Gabby was ready for her pre-dinner sherry—she was almost certain sherry would not be strong enough to sustain her nerves and, more importantly, her temper—she reached the bottom of the grand staircase and paused; took in two deep, long breaths, counting to ten between each before squaring her shoulders. She took that last step down and swept into the formal drawing room. Huntley stood at the windows, looking out at the dark night. He appeared as formidable as he had the night of her come-out seven years ago, only more hardened. Yet his very aura compelled her.
“Are you a cat now, my lord, that you see in the dark?” Gabby asked him.
He turned around, a slight irresistible smile curving his lips. “No. But cool air is seeping through, and it feels quite nice. May I pour you a sherry?”
“Thank you.” Gabby forced herself to respond lightly and decided to stay with sherry. She needed her wits about her.
Strolling to the cabinet in the corner, Huntley took up a decanter and poured her a measure of wine. His walk in her direction struck her as predatory. A large cat in a very small jungle, and her, with nowhere to hide. “How was your day?”
She accepted, appalled to find her fingers trembling. She made a heroic attempt to manage the violent ire consuming her by swallowing a large quantity. She was right—sherry was much too tame for her inner turmoil. She cleared her throat. “Quite productive. Madame Bovine’s assistant is delivering the most enchanting frock. I shall try it on one last time so that she may make any last-minute adjustments.”
He was hit with a choking fit. “Bovine? As in cow.”
“She couldn’t look any less like a cow. What a perfectly horrid thing to say, my lord.” The modiste’s tall willowy form flitted through her head. The woman could likely have any man she wanted, but as far as Gabby could tell, she carefully stayed within the confines of her own class. She glanced at Huntley.
His lips twitched but his expression remained otherwise controlled. “Of course, please forgive my inappropriate remarks.”
She spun away from him. “I think it’s past time to remodel this mausoleum,” she said only to annoy him.
“I believe you may be on to something, Lady Huntley. Mausoleum is an apt description of this cavernous monstrosity of a house, and with my parents gone, I see no reason for delay.”
Gabby pulled up, whipping back around.
Surprise lit his features, then turned calculating.
“Really?” She’d hated the house the moment she’d entered it. The dark walls in unbecoming shades that seemed to suck out the very oxygen, the heavy furnishings in brocade trimmed with gilded fringe. When one walked into this home, one could have taken a step back into George III’s London.
He shrugged. “Why not? Be warned though, it will be quite the undertaking.”
She nodded slowly, thinking quickly. In his mind, he would be keeping her occupied, in hers, she would let him think he was keeping her so. “I’ll start tomorrow.”
Diggs appeared in the arch of the open door. “Lady Huntley, there is a delivery for you.”
“Thank you, Diggs. Have her shown to my sitting room.” She turned an overly bright smile on her husband and set her glass aside. “I fear I shall be late for dinner, my lord.” Gabby strode calmly from the room, but it was an effort, when everything in her screamed “run.”
