“They won’t all go quietly, Brentworth,” Gabriel said. “I have told you that often before. You have been lucky thus far, but this was inevitable eventually.”
“It will all be forgotten in a day,” Stratton soothed. “There are worse things than having society think a woman got rid of you instead of the other way around.”
Brentworth did not look appeased. He relaxed, but he sent a rather nasty smile in Gabriel’s direction. “Since you have entertained Stratton in his hour of need, you should continue.”
“I have nothing of interest to distract him.”
“Why don’t you tell him about your shepherdess?”
Gabriel puffed on his cigar.
“Shepherdess?” Stratton encouraged.
“He met her at the masked ball,” Brentworth said. “She was pursuing Harry and he threw himself into the breach on his brother’s behalf. He then lured her to the terrace and down into the garden. As to what transpired there . . .” He waved his cigar in a circular pattern.
“So?” Stratton prodded.
Gabriel cleared his throat. “Very little happened. It is a very short story.” He normally did not hesitate to regale his friends with stories of his women, but he did not want to this time. For one thing, the tale hardly did him credit. For another, he could not escape a nagging sense deep inside him, beneath the desire for pleasure or a diverting pursuit, that this woman was in trouble of some kind.
Nonsense, probably. No doubt she either had played him for a fool or had begun a long game. If the latter, the next move must be hers.
“And yet he peers at ladies’ mouths and chins wherever he goes, since that was all one could see with her mask,” Brentworth said. “On our way here, he was doing it again.”
“I swear you are worse than an old aunt sometimes. I always look at the ladies. Remember? I was not looking forher.” Except he had been. He had tried to re-create her face in his mind, based on damned little evidence from seeing it in the shadows that night. The shawl remained in his dressing room still, long after he should have discarded it.
“What is her name?” Stratton asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Kisses in a garden do not require names,” Brentworth said.
“Have you seen her again?” Stratton asked.
Gabriel eyed the appointments in the library. Brentworth eyedhim, then leaned forward to examine his face more carefully.
“Damn, hehasseen her again,” Brentworth said. “You had an assignation with her, didn’t you? Yet you still don’t know her name?”
“It was a very brief meeting. Very discreet. Stop smiling. I can be discreet too when necessary.”
“Not too brief a meeting, I trust,” Stratton said. “Do you plan any more brief, discreet assignations?”
It was too much. “See here, I will explain, but you are not even to tell your wife, Stratton. It would ruin me. You must swear.”
“I swear. Brentworth does too. You know us. We are good to our word on this.”
Gabriel told the story, short though it was.
“You fell asleep?” Stratton asked. “She came to you. You had her there. You kissed. Thenyou fell asleep?” He turned to Brentworth as if requiring someone to confirm he had heard correctly.
“This is amusing enough to take society’s mind off the talk about me,” Brentworth said.
“I had too much wine. She began that song and it lulled me and . . . suddenly it was morning.”
“Did you check your pockets?” Brentworth asked. “Some whores—”
“Of course I checked for theft. I am not a green boy, auntie. I checked myself, the chamber, the silver. Nothings appeared gone. I told you, she is not a whore. That much I know.” Damned if he could explain how he knew. He just did.
“No wonder you keep looking for her. You need to apologize,” Stratton said. He actually appeared offended on behalf of the woman.
