Feeling put upon by the world in general, Gabriel tried to distract himself by plotting a few days of decadent excess. Unfettered debauchery always made him feel better. He intended to lure a certain lady into enjoying the indulgence with him. She had been coy thus far, but he knew progress when he saw it and, at their last rendezvous, her eyes had shown all the right signs.
The carriage took a turn and picked up a bit of speed. Not enough, however. Gabriel cursed himself for not riding his horse. That was always faster.
Finally, the carriage stopped in front of his brother’s townhome on Bainbridge Street. Gabriel stepped out and eyed the façade.
He did not care for this house and not only because it inconvenienced him. Standing alone, its brick face and limestone window headers and sills might have passed muster, even if, with three levels, it hardly spoke of the home of a lord.
The problem was the next building on this street. A huge house owned by Sir Malcolm Nutley loomed cheek to jowl with Harry’s. It was an old one that had been designed in the day when houses had not shown restraint. An abundance of stone carvings marked its age and made it appear even more imposing. They diminished the modest brick dwelling alongside all the more too.
The effect could be seen in the reaction of the woman who had paused to gaze at the architecture. A servant, from the look of her plain green dress, she bent her head back until the deep brim of her straw bonnet angled to the clouds. The old-fashioned gray mansion must have impressed her because she paced away to its far corner to get another view.
Gabriel turned his mind to the matter that had brought him here. This was a brotherly call, a matter of duty but also affection. Harry’s heart had been broken for the first time and it was unlikely he knew how to accommodate the disappointment.
Gabriel, on the other hand, possessed wide and deep experience with matters of the heart. Inconvenient though it might be, of course he had to ride across town to help Harry out.
* * *
The house appeared closed. Amanda examined it while half her mind thought about the peculiar quarter hour she had just spent in another house, the one on Bedford Square.
A pretty, delicate blond woman named Mrs. Galbreath had greeted her and Lady Farnsworth. Then they all sat in a library with too many chairs and divans while Mrs. Galbreath gently asked questions of Amanda. They were the sort of questions one might pose to a new acquaintance, only a tad more pointed.
Had she not known better, she would suspect she was being considered for another position. Lady Farnsworth would warn her if she intended to let her go, however. In fact, Lady Farnsworth had looked on indulgently. Only at the end had she mentioned that Mrs. Galbreath was the publisher ofParnassus, that journal she wrote for. Mrs. Galbreath, in turn, had mentioned meeting again soon. Then Lady Farnsworth had excused her to go shopping.
She forced herself to stop ruminating on the peculiar meeting, and brought all her attention to the big house she faced. She moved her shopping basket full of basic household items to her right arm, so it would be visible to anyone in the house. No one inside would wonder why a woman dressed in this poor garment had stopped to gawk at this house while on her way home from the shops.
It helped that Sir Malcolm Nutley lived in a huge house worthy of note. It must date from King Charles’s time. Nothing in Mayfair looked like this, and even the famous London mansions like Montagu House and Somerset House displayed less flamboyance. Along with excess decoration, this house also displayed considerable mass. She could not imagine how many chambers it held.
A coach that had stopped at the house next door still stood there. She had seen a tall, handsome man get out and pause while he glanced at this neighbor’s pile of stone. He had glanced at her too, but not suspiciously.
She, in turn, had noticed him. Anyone would. He was very wealthy from his dress and equipage. He possessed the bluest eyes she had ever seen. He carried his hat. That was just as well. She doubted it sat easily on the thick, fashionably unruly dark curls decorating his head.
He had entered the house now. She strolled back toward that coach, keeping her gaze on Sir Malcolm’s abode. A footman lounged against the hip of the coach while a coachman fussed with a horse’s bridle.
She stepped close enough for the gray-haired coachman to notice her. He nodded to her and smiled. She gestured to the big house. “Do you know who lives here?”
“That is Sir Malcolm’s house. Sir Malcolm Nutley. Elderly fellow. It’s the family home. Don’t see many like that. Something papist about it. Not to my taste, but I’m a simple man.”
“It is quite fancy and impressive, but not to my taste either. I much prefer this brick one here. I expect a tradesman lives in it.”
The coachman grinned. “Did the man I brought here look to be a tradesman?”
“It is his house?”
“No, but he’s not the sort to pay calls on a tradesman either. If I had the state coach instead of this one, you would know what I mean.” He leaned in confidentially and jabbed his thumb at the brick house. “The brother of a duke lives there, and it was the duke hisself that you might of saw entering.”
“Oh, my! I am sure I have never seen a duke before. My friend Katherine will be so awed on my behalf. Can you tell me which one it was? If I don’t know, she probably will never believe me.”
“Langford. His brother what lives here is Lord Harold St. James.”
She looked back at the bigger house. “I would have expected a lord to live in that one.”
“Well, Lord Harold is . . .” He rubbed his chin while he searched for the word. “Unusual. Not the sort to notice his surroundings much, is my guess. This house probably suits him just fine. No need for lots of servants and others about to bother him and such.”
“He may be a lord, but I would much rather see the inside of Sir Malcolm’s. I suppose it is very grand.”
“More likely very dusty. Sir Malcolm has not returned to town since he left last summer. Ailing, I hear. Is down in the country where the air is good.”
The house indeed was closed. What a stroke of good luck. “Perhaps, if the family is not in residence, the housekeeper would let me see inside.”
