CHAPTER TEN THE RAKE RETREATS
Gabriel left before Eleanor woke. That was the first lie he told himself.
She had been awake. He knew because her breathing changed when he lifted his head from her breast. The rhythm remained slow and carefully even, but the hand resting loosely in his hair became still.
Eleanor did not open her eyes. She did not ask him to remain, challenge his silence or remind him that she had already caught him attempting to flee one bed before dawn.
She allowed him the cowardice of believing his retreat unnoticed.
Gabriel slipped from beneath the covers and dressed in the grey light while Eleanor lay turned toward the dying fire.
His movements were practised and quiet. He retrieved his trousers, fastened his shirt and tied his cravat without requiring a mirror.
Only his hands betrayed him. They shook once while fastening the cuff nearest the bed. Gabriel looked at Eleanor.
The sheet had fallen low upon her back, exposing one bare shoulder and the upper curve of her breast where she rested against the mattress.
Her dark hair spread across the pillow in waves his fingers remembered too clearly.
Beneath the linen, her body carried the evidence of his mouth, his hands and the slow intimacy they had shared without disguising it as instruction.
He could still feel her around him. More dangerous than that, he could feel the memory of her arms holding him afterward.
Gabriel had not intended to sleep. He had certainly not intended to rest his head over her heart like a child seeking proof that someone remained beside him.
Yet Eleanor had opened her arms, and for the first time in years he had allowed another person to offer comfort without repaying it immediately through pleasure, humour or usefulness.
He had slept because she held him and had awakened to find love upon her face.
No declaration had been necessary. Eleanor was a woman who spent her life studying small alterations, and Gabriel had spent his studying people.
He recognised the difference between desire, tenderness and the devastating clarity with which she had looked at him as dawn entered the room.
She loved him. The discovery should have filled him with triumph.
Society assumed every woman eventually loved Gabriel St. Clair, and he had spent years encouraging the legend.
Affection made people generous. Infatuation made them careless.
Desire opened doors. Eleanor’s love had closed every exit.
Gabriel fastened his coat. He told himself she deserved stability.
The thought was true. Eleanor deserved a man who would not disappear for weeks beneath a false name, enter dangerous houses or allow rumours of infidelity to protect government work.
She deserved someone whose friendships were not partly operations and whose former lovers did not populate half the drawing rooms in London.
Gabriel could offer pleasure, information and temporary courage. He could not offer safety.
He told himself he could not promise fidelity.
That was less true. Since the first lesson in Arabella’s ballroom, no other woman had held his interest for longer than politeness required.
At White’s, when men discussed actresses, widows and discreet wives, Gabriel listened without imagining himself in any of their beds.
He had touched Eleanor and discovered that every previous intimacy belonged to another language.
He could promise fidelity. What frightened him was making any promise she might one day use to prove he had failed.
His father had promised Gabriel’s mother gentleness after every act of violence.
The promises became weapons because each broken one taught her to distrust her own judgement while clinging more fiercely to hope.
Gabriel had built a life without promises because a man could not betray what he never offered.
He told himself his work would place Eleanor in danger.
That was entirely true. Vesper already knew her value.
The Mercury ledger identified her as an unwitting source, and Dr. Finch had negotiated to sell her unpublished research.
Anyone who discovered Gabriel cared for her would possess leverage no government instruction could make harmless.
A person who knew what he loved knew where to wound him.
He told himself Eleanor would eventually see him as society did.
A charming man. An entertaining mistake.
A rake incapable of permanence. That too contained truth, though Eleanor had already proved inconveniently resistant to society’s conclusions.
She saw the calculation beneath his smiles, the intelligence hidden behind indifference and the scars concealed by fine tailoring.
She also saw his cowardice. Eventually, she would understand that cowardice mattered more.
Ending the relationship now was kinder. That was the greatest lie of all.
Gabriel stood beside the bed and looked at the woman pretending to sleep so he might leave without speaking.
He could bend, kiss her shoulder and tell her the truth: that he loved her or stood close enough to love that the distinction had become useless.
He could remain until she opened her eyes and could allow fear to exist without obeying it. Instead, he left the chamber.
In the study downstairs, Gabriel found paper, ink and the courage available only to men writing what they could not endure saying aloud. He composed three versions of the note. The first was too honest. The second was too cruel. He selected the third because it resembled courtesy.
Miss Finch,
In light of the evidence recovered last night, I believe our private arrangement has reached its natural conclusion. Your preparation for the Mercury Club was entirely successful, and further lessons would serve no practical purpose.
The remaining investigation should proceed through Calder and Sir Malcolm Hargreaves, whose authority is better suited to the seriousness of the matter. I shall, of course, provide any information they require.
You have proved an exceptionally accomplished pupil. I trust you will make excellent use of everything you have learned.
Ashcombe
Gabriel read the note once. It sounded exactly like the sort of letter a notorious rake might leave after obtaining what he wanted. He folded it before disgust persuaded him to destroy it. Hastings entered carrying a breakfast tray and stopped when he saw Gabriel dressed for the street.
“My lord?”
“Deliver this to Miss Finch when she wakes.”
The butler accepted the note. His eyes moved toward the adjoining chamber.
“Will you not remain for breakfast?”
“No.”
“Miss Finch may expect—”
“Deliver the note.”
Hastings inclined his head. Gabriel walked from the study, collected his hat and left his house before the woman he loved could make remaining seem possible.
* * *
Four days later, Gabriel attended Lady Ormond’s reception for the sole purpose of behaving badly.
The event occupied three state rooms, a conservatory and a ballroom decorated with enough white roses to make virtue appear contagious.
Musicians played near the eastern windows.
Footmen circulated with champagne, and London’s wealthiest families gathered beneath chandeliers to discuss politics, marriage and other forms of organised misery.
Gabriel entered shortly after ten. His arrival produced the expected response.
Two unmarried women whispered behind fans.
A dowager demanded to know whether his presence meant Lady Ormond had abandoned standards entirely.
Lord Carrow raised one glass from the card room, while a viscountess whose husband stood nearby offered Gabriel a smile involving several past mistakes.
The reception was ideal for resurrecting Lord Ashcombe.
Gabriel accepted champagne and began the performance.
He laughed too readily. He complimented three women within six minutes and allowed one elderly duchess to scold him for neglecting her granddaughter.
He made a baron believe a political observation was brilliant, persuaded a diplomat to repeat a rumour concerning Vesper’s financial intermediaries and appeared not to notice Julian watching him from across the room.
Every gesture belonged to the man Gabriel had been before Eleanor.
That was the purpose. He needed witnesses.
Eleanor would attend with Arabella and the Society.
She would see him restored to familiar habits and understand that the night in his bed had altered nothing lasting.
She would be wounded, but wounds healed.
A clean cruelty was kinder than allowing hope to deepen before he failed her.
The reasoning had sounded more convincing while alone.
Lady Penelope Sefton approached near the conservatory doors.
The countess was thirty-two, beautiful and married to a man who preferred horses to conversation.
Gabriel had once spent three nights in her country house while investigating her brother’s involvement in forged military contracts.
The investigation had ended. Their affair had continued briefly because both understood its limits.
Penelope knew enough of him to recognise performance, but not enough to understand its current purpose.
“You look terrible,” she murmured after offering her hand.
Gabriel bowed over it. “Penelope, your compliments remain devastating.”
“You are smiling too much.”
“A tragic symptom of happiness.”
“Is she here?”
Gabriel straightened.
“Who?”
“The woman responsible for your apparent desire to set fire to your own reputation.”
“I created the reputation. I am entitled to enjoy it.”