Chapter Fourteen
THE DUCHESS OF Northcott was one of the most enthusiastic hostesses Gabriel had ever encountered.
Within a quarter hour of his arrival to Northcott Manor, the duchess had rearranged the seating plan twice, offered to nip to the village in search of ginger biscuits—having overheard Gabe mention he was fond of them—and informed him, several times and quite loudly, that Plumpton had taken such a shine to him that he really ought to consider settling there permanently.
“What does London have that Plumpton doesn’t?” she mused aloud.
“Gentlemen’s clubs where one might escape their wives for a moment,” Northcott murmured dryly in Gabe’s ear—then turned scarlet as his wife swivelled toward him with a look of suspicion.
Mercifully, her attention was diverted by the arrival of the final guests: Charlotte and Mr and Mrs Mifford.
“We shan’t sound the gong for supper,” the duchess announced as she waved them in, “Just in case we wake George—the poor dear is so sensitive to noise.”
“Unless he’s making it,” Mr Mifford observed innocently.
The duchess whirled to scold her father, but was spared the effort when her advancing figure collided with the evergreen display on the side table, sending a shower of holly and polished apples tumbling to the floor.
Mild chaos ensued, swiftly restored to order by the unflappable Lady Crabb—whose serenity, Gabe was beginning to suspect, had been carefully cultivated as self-defence while growing up with her sister.
As ever, chaos presented opportunity. While the other guests fussed over the toppled evergreens, Gabe took advantage of the hubbub to sidle discreetly toward Miss Mifford.
“Shall we?” he murmured, offering her his arm.
She smiled and placed her hand upon his sleeve. “It should all calm down in a few minutes,” she assured him, as he guided her toward the dining room. “We’re less boisterous as a family when we’re seated.”
He smiled at that but felt an unexpected pang beneath it. When had he last belonged to such a collective? A wholesome one, at least. Not a ship full of men who were hairy, foul-mouthed, and, on particularly rough voyages, offensively fragranced.
Just as on Christmas Eve, he became acutely aware that he was a man without a family.
In the dining room, they quickly discovered that they had been seated beside one another—and as far from Mrs Mifford as was possible without sending her to dine in the potting shed.
“Charlotte, I can’t see you from all the way down here!” Mrs Mifford called plaintively from the far end of the table. “Perhaps I shall just swap seats with you, Jane? Or Ivo?”
Lord and Lady Crabb had been placed on either side of Gabe and Charlotte like sentries, to guard them against attack. Gabe hadn’t expected to be ambushed at dinner—but the duchess, it seemed, knew the enemy better than he, and had adequately prepared.
“Mama, hush! I want you here beside me,” Mary scolded—then, without missing a beat, waved over an exceedingly dashing footman. “Biggins, will you fill Mama’s glass? She’s running low.”
Mrs Mifford hesitated, momentarily torn between outrage and the far more tempting prospect of wine—and a strapping young buck to admire while it was poured. At last she sat back, mollified, as she allowed the handsome young servant to dance attendance upon her.
If the Duchess of Northcott had been born a man, Gabe mused, Wellington would have made her his aide-de-camp.
As the other—less handsome—footmen circled the table, filling the guests’ glasses, Lord and Lady Crabb threw themselves into such determined conversation with the people on either side of them that Gabe suspected it had been plotted beforehand.
“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me as a conversationalist,” he remarked dryly to Charlotte, as she realised they were being roundly ignored.
“That’s lucky, because it’s only you I wish to speak to,” she smiled at him, her blue eyes wide.
For a moment, his heart soared sky-high—above the table, Northcott Manor, Plumpton, and the Cotswolds hills beyond—before it came crashing back to earth with a thump.
“I believe I’ve uncovered another clue about Mr Cleeve.”
Naturellement, she wished to speak to him about murder.
As Gabe hid his disappointment, Charlotte leaned closer and relayed, in a hushed voice, what Mr Marrowbone had told her.
“And he did not think to question whether a man who disappeared on the night of the murder might have something to do with it?” Gabe raised a brow at the constable’s obliviousness.
Charlotte did not answer; she merely rolled her eyes heavenward and pursed her rosebud mouth into an irritated moue. The gesture was so charming that, for a moment, Gabe quite forgot he had news of his own.
“I called in on Mr Boden in the receiving office,” he told her, lowering his voice, “And he confirmed that Mr Cleeve and Mr Postlethwaite had an argument on the morning of the bazaar. We were correct in suspecting the postmaster of rifling through people’s post.”
He paused as the footmen set down the first course before them, then continued, spoon in hand.
“And that’s not all—Mr Boden revealed that Mr Postlethwaite had threatened to go to the school’s governor over the contents of a letter addressed to Mr Cleeve.”
“What was the letter about?” Charlotte gasped.
“Politics, mostly,” Gabe said with a shrug. “It concerned the need for the fairer division of wealth between the ruling classes and the poor.”
A faint prickle of unease ran through him as he spoke. He, too, was of the mind that those blessed with fortune bore an obligation toward those without. He had seen, first-hand, how an impoverished population might rise up against a corrupted aristocracy that hoarded its wealth.
“So, Mr Postlethwaite threatened his livelihood,” she breathed, looking faintly alarmed. Now that they had a plausible motive, Gabe suspected the investigation—and even the murder itself—had begun to feel suddenly, unsettlingly real to her.
“I will take care of matters from here, Charlotte,” he said brusquely, the sudden urge to protect her tightening his voice. “I’ll inform Lord Crabb tomorrow of all that we’ve learned, and then he and Mr Marrowbone can proceed as they please.”
His need to shield her from harm had made him gruffer than usual, and from her crestfallen expression he could see that—ironically—he had wounded her all the same.
“It’s more dangerous now that we have a suspect,” he continued, more gently this time, wishing he might reach across the table to take her hand. “I shouldn’t like any harm to befall you.”
As he could not touch her, he tried instead to convey his feelings with a look. He had hoped his gaze smouldered with all the passion he felt—but alas, Miss Mifford merely blinked in alarm and brushed a hand across her lips, as though checking for crumbs.
Before Gabe could attempt to redeem himself, the duchess tapped a knife against her glass and called for the table’s attention. Once everyone had turned her way, she rose to her feet—with some assistance from her husband—glass aloft.
“I should just like to take a moment before dessert,” she began, her eyes visibly misty even from a distance, “To propose a toast to you all. Perhaps this”—she paused to stroke her bump—“is making me a trifle more sentimental than usual, but I should like to thank you all for coming. Especially Eudora, who is almost as big as me!”
From the corner of his eye, Gabe saw Lady Delaney turn to her husband.
“I’m just as big as her,” she whispered, outraged.
“Bigger, dearest,” Lord Delaney murmured back.
“To family,” the duchess finished, oblivious to their aside, raising her glass high.
The entire table—Gabe included—rose to echo her toast. He joined in wholeheartedly, clinking glasses with whomever he could reach, but inside he felt that same sharp ache—a longing to belong to something bigger than himself. It was, he reflected wryly, a tall order in every sense.
The guests retook their seats as Biggins, the handsome footman, wheeled out an enormous Twelfth Cake, iced in snow-white sugar and gleaming with candied cherries and gilt almonds.
“Magnificent,” Mrs Mifford remarked as he passed her.
Gabe wasn’t entirely certain whether she referred to the cake or the man wheeling it.
“We thought we’d serve the Twelfth Cake now, rather than wait,” Mary explained with a broad smile to the table. “I’m beginning to suspect that I won’t last until Twelfth Night—a shame, Charlotte! It would be lovely if she shared your birthday.”
Gabe cast a sidelong glance at Miss Mifford, who had gone quite red.
“We don’t mention birthdays after a certain age, Mary,” Mrs Mifford admonished her eldest daughter.
“You can’t be certain yet that she’s a she,” Lady Delaney added, her expression decidedly mutinous.
“Is that my necklace, Emily?” Lady Crabb interjected, her voice—for the first time during Gabe’s visit—sounding distinctly exasperated.
Charlotte leaned toward him, her breath warm against his ear. “We’re less boisterous when sitting,” she whispered, “But only if not left seated for too long.”
Their hostess clearly felt the same, for she soon declared it was time to repair to the drawing room for tea.
“No cheroots and brandy?” Lord Crabb called across to Northcott.
The duke flushed. “Brandy, yes—but I’m afraid if you’d like a smoke, you’ll have to step outside,” he admitted. “The smell of smoke lingers and makes Mary ill. I’m happy to oblige her, of course, though I particularly miss my post-dinner treat.”
In the drawing room, the ladies arranged themselves upon the overstuffed settees, while the menfolk gathered near the fire. Gabe was absently admiring how pretty Charlotte looked beneath the soft glow of the gilt branch-light when the duke thrust a glass of brandy into his hand.
“No poison this time,” Northcott jested lightly, lifting his own glass to his lips to prove it was safe.
Gabe took a sip of the fiery liquid, hoping it might soothe the vague disquiet in his soul. It did not.
“You know,” he said to no one in particular, “I think I’ll step outside for a cheroot after all.”
“One of the footmen will show you to the library,” Northcott advised—a consummate host to the last. “There’s a box and some tapers on the desk. You’ll find a pleasant spot just beyond the French doors where a man might sit, smoke, and ponder his life—if he’s allowed.”
Gabe hid a grin at the duke’s wistful tone, then quickly made his escape from the warmth of the drawing room. He found the box of cheroots and tapers easily enough on Northcott’s desk in the library.
Stepping through the French doors into the chill night air, he lit a cheroot. He leaned against the cold stone wall and shook out the taper’s flame, drawing deeply on the cigar.
He closed his eyes as he exhaled, trying to name the strange restlessness that had been plaguing him.
For years he had distracted himself from all he’d lost by chasing justice across the seas, hunting down those who had stolen his life, his fortune, his family.
Under the letter of marque, vengeance had felt like purpose enough.
But now, peace had come—and though he had rebuilt his fortune, he could never rebuild what truly mattered. His father, executed during the Terror, would never see what had been reclaimed. His mother, dead in exile, would never come home.
He took another slow draw on the cheroot. What was a fortune, after all, if one had no one to share it with?
He smoked the cheroot until it had nothing left to offer, then stubbed it out in a conveniently placed ashtray and turned back toward the house. He supposed he ought to return to the fray soon enough—if his absence grew any lengthier it might be considered rude.
Closing the library door softly behind him, he paused in the dimly lit corridor, steeling himself for another few hours of small talk. Perhaps Mrs Mifford would oblige his introversion by monopolising the conversation entirely, he prayed.
As he approached the drawing room, the door opened and a familiar figure stepped out. Gabe’s battered heart gave a lurch of longing.
“There you are,” Charlotte whispered, tiptoeing toward him. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”
“I do not possess the same willpower as Northcott to resist the pull of a cheroot,” Gabe replied with a smile and a shrug.
“I believe it’s fear more than willpower that keeps him from the cigar box,” she confided with a smile, before adding, “I’m just dashing upstairs to fetch a gown from Mary’s wardrobe for the assembly. She would have accompanied me, but she fears she wouldn’t make it back down again.”
Gabe smiled faintly. “A wise precaution.”
“I hope you’re all right,” she ventured suddenly, her eyes full of concern. “I thought—well, I imagine this time of year must be difficult, after all that you’ve lost.”
He stilled, the words catching him unprepared. That she had noticed—had seen—the shadow in him touched him more deeply than he could say.
She took a small step forward and, to his surprise, reached out to take his hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, her fingers giving his a gentle squeeze. “If you ever need someone, I’m always here.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then the drawing room door opened again, and Mrs Mifford’s voice floated into the hall.
“I’d best dash,” Charlotte whispered, letting go of his hand. With a nervous smile, she darted up the stairs, her skirts whispering in her wake.
Gabe watched her go, a strange warmth unfurling in his chest. She had noticed his pain—had understood it—without his having to say a word.
He felt seen, surprisingly that feeling was almost better than a kiss.
Though that wasn’t to say that he didn’t want that as well.