Chapter 14
“I found ye kind, and therefore ye may trust me; and now I trust not to be deceived.”
Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte d’Arthur
The carriage rolled smoothly along the well-maintained road toward London, the four matched horses maintaining a steady pace. Inside the luxurious compartment, Gabriel found himself experiencing an emotion so unfamiliar that it took him several minutes to identify it as contentment.
He was married. To Henri. The reality of it still seemed impossible, like something from a dream he might wake from at any moment. Yet there she sat next to him. Lady Trenwith. His wife.
Gabriel turned his attention to the countryside rolling past the window, the winter landscape dotted with bare trees and frost-covered fields that would eventually give way to the bustle of London.
But the scenery held little interest for him.
His awareness kept returning to the woman who shared his carriage, to the subtle scent of lavender that seemed to follow her everywhere, to the way she absently worried her lower lip when lost in thought.
Almost without conscious decision, Gabriel reached across the space between them and gently clasped Henri’s gloved hand in his. She looked up with surprise, her fascinating eyes widening at the unexpected gesture, but after a moment of hesitation, she allowed her fingers to relax in his grasp.
The simple contact sent a warmth through Gabriel that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with connection.
He found himself marveling at how natural it felt to have her there, how the restless energy that usually consumed him during travel seemed to quiet in her presence.
For the first time in years, he was not planning three moves ahead, not calculating diplomatic advantages or anticipating potential threats.
He was simply present in this moment, content to hold his wife’s hand and watch the English countryside pass by their window.
As the miles rolled beneath their wheels, Gabriel began to contemplate the changes that marriage would necessarily bring to his carefully ordered existence.
The dangerous diplomatic missions that had defined his adult life would have to end.
A married man, particularly one with a wife as intelligent and politically astute as Henri, could not simply disappear for weeks at a time on mysterious government business.
The very secrecy that had armored him in his work would become a barrier in his marriage.
The thought should have troubled him. For years, his diplomatic career had been his primary source of purpose, the work that gave meaning to his existence beyond the mere management of his inherited estates.
Yet as he watched Henri’s profile, noting the way she studied the passing landscape, Gabriel found himself surprisingly at peace with the prospect of change.
Perhaps it was time to take up his political responsibilities more earnestly.
As Viscount of Trenwith, he held a seat in the House of Lords that he had largely neglected in favor of his more clandestine duties.
With Henri’s sharp political mind to assist him, he could imagine engaging more directly with the great questions of their time rather than operating from the shadows.
His estates, too, may have suffered from his inattention.
Gabriel realized he knew shamefully little about the tenants and properties that provided his income, having been content to leave such matters to competent stewards while he pursued more immediately pressing concerns.
A settled life would allow him to become the sort of landlord his position demanded, to take genuine responsibility for the people who depended on his land and leadership for their livelihoods.
Gabriel’s thumb traced gentle circles over Henri’s knuckles, and he found himself imagining a future that had been impossible just weeks ago.
A life shared with someone who understood the complexities of political maneuvering, who could hold her own in drawing rooms and parlors where policy was made over tea and careful conversation. A partner rather than merely a wife.
The very thought of allowing himself such connection, such vulnerability, should have terrified him.
Gabriel had spent decades building walls around his heart, constructing elaborate defenses against the kind of emotional dependence that had brought him such pain as a child.
Yet Henri’s presence bypassed those vigilantly erected barriers without even trying.
Still, old habits die hard. Even as Gabriel contemplated this potential transformation, he maintained his characteristic reserve.
He squeezed Henri’s hand gently but said nothing of the thoughts occupying his mind.
He smiled when she caught his eye but offered no explanation for his unusually demonstrative mood.
The boy who had learned too early that emotional displays led to rejection remained deeply ingrained in the man.
Gabriel might be slowly coming to terms with his changed circumstances, might even be allowing himself to imagine a future built around genuine connection rather than careful isolation, but he would not rush headlong into such hazardous territory.
For now, it was enough to hold his wife’s hand and feel, for perhaps the first time since his parents had departed this world, that he was exactly where he belonged. The rest would come in time, if he could find the courage to let it.
As their carriage rolled through the familiar streets of London, Henri felt her pulse quicken with anticipation and anxiety in equal measure.
The city was bustling with its usual energy, but she could think only of the questions that had been building during their journey.
Now, with Gabriel’s brief moment of openness past, she decided to make another attempt.
“Gabriel,” Henri began carefully, “you were remarkably adept at deciphering that sketch. It suggests considerable experience with such puzzles. What truly brought you to Danbury’s that morning?”
Gabriel’s expression grew guarded immediately, the warmth that had characterized his demeanor during their quiet moments fading behind his familiar mask of control.
“As I mentioned, we should focus on solving the mystery together. Once we understand what the sketch reveals, perhaps there will be more to discuss.”
Henri felt her heart sink at yet another deflection. Even the simple intimacy of holding hands was insufficient to bridge the gulf between them when it came to matters Gabriel deemed too sensitive to share.
When their carriage finally drew up before the elegant Bigsby townhouse, Henri could see familiar faces at the windows. Her mother’s imposing figure was silhouetted in the front drawing room, and Henri braced herself for what she knew would be a thorough interrogation.
Eleanor Bigsby met them at the door with her characteristic efficiency, though Henri detected relief in her mother’s sharp eyes as she embraced her daughter.
Mama was a formidable woman of six feet who had built an empire of artificial stone while raising twin daughters alone, and she had not achieved such success by avoiding difficult conversations.
“Henrietta,” her mother said, holding her at arm’s length to study her face. “You look well, though I confess I have been quite concerned about your continued absence.” Her gaze shifted to Gabriel with polite but unmistakable scrutiny. “Lord Trenwith, I presume? Your message was rather … brief.”
Gabriel stepped forward with a bow that was both respectful and commanding. “Mrs. Bigsby, I am honored to finally make your acquaintance. I regret the irregular nature of our correspondence.”
Mama’s expression remained impartial as she ushered them into the drawing room without the customary curtsy due a viscount.
“Indeed. Perhaps you would care to explain those circumstances more fully? Henri’s uncle and I have been quite at a loss to understand her sudden departure from London, more so since the rather cryptic nature of your communication. ”
Henri watched Gabriel navigate her mother’s pointed questions with the same charm she had observed him use with officials and innkeepers.
He spoke of an urgent matter requiring Henri’s expertise, of the necessity for immediate travel, of his deep respect for her abilities and his commitment to her safety and reputation.
All perfectly reasonable explanations that somehow managed to reveal absolutely nothing of substance.
“I am afraid I must tell you,” Mama continued, her tone growing more serious, “that Signor di Bianchi has been quite distraught about Henri’s disappearance.
He and the young gentlemen from next door have been searching for her across the countryside, trying to trace where she went after visiting Sir Alpheus.
The poor man feels responsible for her vanishing, for he was the one who had left her alone to examine that manuscript.
Miss Dulwich was not able to tell us very much beyond your scheme to view it, the sound of a pistol discharging, and they found your bonnet on the table, so they feared you had not left on your own determination …
” Mama broke off, her jaw tightening and clearly unwilling to relive her distress.
Henri felt a pang of guilt at the thought of Lorenzo di Bianchi’s distress, not to mention what her mother and great-uncle had gone through. “He does not know we are married?”
“Married?” Mama’s voice rose slightly, the first crack in her composure. “When exactly did this marriage take place?”
“Yesterday morning, in Calais,” Henri replied. “We were wed at the consulate there.”
Mama was quiet for a long moment, clearly processing this information and its implications. “I see. And this was … a planned elopement?”