Chapter 1 #2
Her throat bobbed, and when the lie came she delivered it with remarkable aplomb. “I was feeling under the weather. And one cannot summon a hackney so easily out here.”
“Then why move to World’s End?” He considered the peace, the stillness, the gentle hoot of an owl and the soft whisper of wind in the trees. “I see the appeal, but it’s hardly practical for a woman living alone.”
The thought needled him. No maid to keep watch, no companion to stand guard. Yet she always arrived at The Jade wearing an impeccable gown, each one the work of an expert modiste. Money enough for finery, but not for protection. Everything about her was a conundrum.
She stared at him, lips as tight as a miser’s purse.
“I’ve been frank with you,” he lied again, frustration rising. “At least grant me the courtesy of explaining your predicament.”
The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken truths. He could almost hear her sifting through them, deciding what she might share. He fought the urge to leave, wondering why the devil he bothered at all.
“I have port, my lord. Would you care for a glass?”
Ah, alcohol. The oldest diversion in the book, besides sex. “I make it a rule never to refuse a drink in tense situations, though I must insist on pouring.”
Her lips curved faintly. “You don’t need to play the marquess here. As you can see, it’s not a Mayfair drawing room.”
No, though he rather liked the quaint intimacy of it.
“If we’re to be friends, Miss Woolf, there’s one thing you should know about me.
Gallantry runs in my blood.” He strode to the small wooden table, where a bottle stood beside two mismatched glasses and no decanter.
The sight jarred. She dressed with unerring taste, yet served port in something chipped and common.
“Yes, I’ve seen the proof firsthand. You saved that poor boy from Rosefield Seminary. Yet you have secrets too. If gallantry runs in your blood, why do people believe you killed a man?”
His fingers froze on the bottle, the past like an icy draught down his spine. If tonight were to proceed as intended, he had to tell her the truth. “You’re friendly with the Countess of Berridge and visit her ladies’ club often. Has she ever mentioned her brother Justin?”
Saying the name stiffened every muscle. The question remained: was his death an injustice or a cunning betrayal?
“Yes, she mentioned him once. He was your friend at Cambridge, I believe. His body is interred at St Michael’s churchyard.”
Gabriel filled a glass with port and tossed it back, the burn doing nothing to soothe his ire.
“That’s not his body. Probably some vagrant used as bait to trick a man.
He’s alive, though where he’s been for a decade remains a mystery.
” He’d refused to stand at the grave, certain he’d be mourning a lie.
Not a day passed that he didn’t wrestle with the blasted riddle.
Miss Woolf edged nearer. Whether from curiosity or relief that she wasn’t under scrutiny, he couldn’t tell. “Why would it not be him?”
He poured her port and handed her the glass, careful not to touch her fingers. “The remains found in a hidden shelter in the woods were inconclusive. The coroner based his decision on Justin’s clothes, height and build.”
She sipped her drink while he poured himself another. “Did he mention going there? Was it somewhere he frequented?”
Gabriel faced her. No one had asked him these questions in years. “The fact he never mentioned it at all is what’s most odd. We were as close as brothers.”
Her slight shrug said that was of no consequence. “Families lie to one another. It’s those closest who often harbour the darkest secrets.”
He pondered her words. “Is that why you’re hiding here? Because of a disagreement over inheritance? I was told you keep your heirlooms somewhere safe and anticipated the robbery at your previous lodging house.” The thought of any man laying a hand on her set his blood alight.
“Robberies occur frequently in London,” she replied dismissively, taking a quick nip of port.
“Rarely to the same person twice. Are you here because of family troubles?”
“I have no family.”
“Dead or estranged?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He held her gaze. “Because you’re afraid, and I need to know whose neck to wring. Give me a name, and they shall trouble you no more.”
Her laugh held no mirth, only deflection. “And why would you wish to protect me? We’ve only ever exchanged pleasantries.”
“Some would say talk of graveyards and death is hardly pleasant.”
“We see things differently than most.”
“Which is exactly why I’m here.”
“To pry into a lady’s personal affairs?” She set her empty glass on the table. “To scare me half out of my wits at night?”
“To help you.” And in the process he might help himself. With his closest friends married, what was left but to use his privilege for the greater good? “Because I know how it feels to tackle problems alone.” Loneliness was a foe he knew too well.
“There’s safety in solitude.” She turned from him, taking the open book from the chair and snapping it shut. “I’ve learned to rely on myself. I’m not your responsibility.”
“We can change that.”
She didn’t ask how. The shutters were already drawn, barring his entry. “It’s late. I appreciate your concern, but I think you should go.” She glanced towards the window as if she’d heard the sudden creak of the gate. “A horse of that calibre is bound to draw attention on the open road.”
He almost laughed at the irony. He could buy a stable of fine Arabians, own any house of his choosing, have any woman he desired—except this one, and the one his father denied him a decade ago.
He was a marquess with blood bluer than the King’s.
Yet here he was, practically pleading for Miss Woolf’s attention.
Perhaps this sudden need to help her was nothing more than proof the past had not beaten him.
The thought was sobering.
He straightened to his full height.
Despite the plan, he’d not sacrifice his dignity. “If I leave now, I’ll not approach you again. This is the last time I shall ask. If you want my help, demand it now, and you shall have my proposal.”
She gripped her book of morbid poetry, hugging it to her chest. Uncertainty clouded her cornflower eyes. “Your proposal? I warrant you’re an astute man, but how can you help me without knowing the problem?”
“By offering a solution that will restore the balance of power.” His tone carried the kind of certainty that brooked no argument. “No sane man in Christendom would dare challenge you if you accept.”
Her brow furrowed. She tightened her hold on the book, her fingers fretting at the edge of the pages. “Why? What are you proposing?”
He allowed the silence to stretch just long enough to make her uneasy. Then, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, he said, “Marriage, Miss Woolf.”