Chapter Four
Gwen listened at the den’s closed door. Her thoughts skittered like leaves over paving stones in a dry autumn wind. As long as Gideon Devereux remained in the town house, she could not hope to concentrate on anything, save him.
He was alive. He was alive and every bit as vital as she had envisioned—and he wanted her to continue in the role of his fake wife. Why?
Finally, she made out the sound of boot steps on marble, men’s low voices. Then, the front door shut with a resounding thunk.
She strode to the desk and threw herself onto the chair behind it. His chair. By the saints, he looked exactly right in this space. He was so…masculine. But not merely that. Somehow arresting. Yes. He commanded attention.
He certainly had hers. He wanted to continue with the farce. For the time being, he’d said. Long enough to conclude her business transaction, he’d said.
On the plus side, if she agreed, she could still hope to achieve her goal of purchasing Bell & Company.
She could stay in London, and hadn’t that been the goal?
To join her friends, and start her life anew?
And she could not deny this scenario far surpassed the one in which Mr. Devereux had actually died.
Now that she almost knew the man—thanks to her snooping—she could say with some assurance he added something of value to this world.
But it did not follow she owed Gideon Devereux the courtesy of staying the course without first learning what was in it for him, and how their arrangement would conclude—not to mention she had no intention of ceding any aspect of her new company to him.
A conversation was needed. Then she would decide.
In the meantime, Gwen restacked the purchase agreement lying atop Gideon’s desk and began to read over the final—God willing—version of the contract between herself and the stakeholders, while resisting the inclination to contemplate the mysteries surrounding the man who had just upended her life.
An hour later, satisfied all was in order, she signed the document with a flourish, folded and sealed the papers, and called for Mr. Higgins to see them safely couriered to the stakeholder’s solicitor’s office.
She then sought out Mrs. Leach, the housekeeper.
She found the portly, gray-haired woman in her office in the back of Gideon’s town house, muttering over a sheet of parchment.
“Excuse me?” she said from the open door, not wishing to startle the woman.
Nonetheless, Mrs. Leach sprang to her feet as if someone had pinched her. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Devereux. You’ll be happy to know I’m checking my shopping list for the market so nothing gets forgotten for the evenin’ meal.”
“I see…er…thank you.”
“The master has returned,” Mrs. Leach continued. “Cook will want to make sure the ingredients for his favorite foods are readily on-hand. Tonight, especially.”
“Tonight?”
She gave Gwen a knowing look. “Why, the two of you are practically newlyweds. Such a shame you had to part after not even a month as man and wife. But, of course, you had to see to your dear father as every good daughter aught.”
As long as she lived, Gwen would never cease to marvel over the fount of information that traveled between the servants.
She had not confided anything to the staff about her father’s illness, which had supposedly prompted her return to England without her husband. She had said as much to Lord Ashwood.
“Never fear, madam, we shall have everything in order for tonight. May I say how happy we all are to have Mr. Devereux home? There was some talk that…” She flushed and shook her head.
“Never mind. It was naught but idle gossip, as I always maintained. He’s a fine man, is our master, and we all feel lucky to have found a place in his employ. ”
“Oh? That is lovely to hear.” Although, she did wonder what idle gossip the housekeeper had refrained from repeating.
“It’s no secret he takes care o’ those who work for him, and I don’t just mean wages, though he is generous.”
“Of course he is. One of the many qualities that endeared me to him.” Gwen winced inwardly. Digging herself in deeper by the minute.
Mrs. Leach beamed with approval. “Here I am, talking up a storm, when you came here to find me. What may I do for you, ma’am?”
She felt her cheeks heat despite the fact she had considered how best to phrase her request. “Might one of the maids have some time to move the bulk of my things into the chamber adjoining Mr. Devereux’s?”
The woman gave Gwen another approving smile. “Consider it done. You’ll be pleased to know we have already seen to the bedding. You’ll find fresh-scented sheets awaiting you tonight.”
Head-to-toe heat sprouted over her and she knew herself well enough to say for a certainty, her face had gone scarlet.
“I m’self will handle this matter, ma’am. Will you want to oversee the transfer of your things?”
She waved that off. “Heavens, no. I far prefer to spend the time in the upstairs chamber with my work.”
Mrs. Leach made a valiant effort to mask her bemusement.
The staff all seemed flabbergasted by the notion their mistress might work.
Gwen understood. Nevertheless, she would not be swayed by the prevailing sentiment holding a woman of means should refrain from employment.
She would not give up her passion for books, for the advancement of thoughts and ideals and freedoms. Not for anyone.
She told herself Mr. Devereux’s staff, like those in her previous household, would eventually grow comfortable with the notion—if she decided to accept his request to stay on—for the time being.
The thing was, one of them would have to leave London at the conclusion of this farce. Likely, she. She found the idea terribly depressing. She did not relish the idea of departing London and saying goodbye to her friends.
On the other hand, perhaps Gideon meant to return to his home in Calcutta.
For some reason, she found that idea equally depressing.
Mrs. Leach’s next words pulled her from her reverie. “Doubtless, you’ll want help with your toilet tonight, ma’am. Clara will present herself promptly at seven to dress your hair and assist you with your gown.”
Gwen normally eschewed the assistance of a lady’s maid.
Most days she did not change from her day dress into evening attire, mainly because her gowns all rather resembled one another.
She supposed it would look odd if she did not treat Gideon’s homecoming as a special occasion, however.
“You are a wonder, Mrs. Leach. Clara’s assistance will be most welcome. ”
Gideon exited the Home Office, pulled up the collar of his great coat against a dismal rain which had commenced since he’d entered the building an hour ago, and hailed a hackney. He gave the driver the address and vaulted into the cab. It lurched into motion.
One more stop before home. Home, his, and now, his supposed wife’s. He was curious to see what changes his bride had wrought in his absence. He was curious about the woman, period.
Despite his inclination to pigeonhole her as an elitist English rose, he could not help wondering if there weren’t more to her.
What sort of woman faked a marriage to a supposed dead man in order to procure a business?
A goal-oriented one, no doubt. One confident in her ability to pull off the ruse, certainly.
One not afraid to operate outside of normal societal boundaries to accomplish her ends.
That last assumption, he had banked his life on by returning. But then, his sole alternative had been to live the rest of his life a fugitive, never stepping foot on English soil again.
She was nothing like he could’ve imagined, however.
She neither struck him as a risk-taker nor a mysterious woman of the demimonde.
She was a bloody bluestocking English rose with distinctly tinged blue blood—and yet, after two minutes in her presence, his blood began to simmer with unmistakable awareness.
It made no sense. Most likely the uncertainty about his future had caused a certain proclivity for reactivity when they’d met.
A hyper awareness. Tonight, he would not be so inclined.
After all, his meeting with Varley, the senior undersecretary to the Home Office secretary, had gone well, all things considered.
Varley had not charged Gideon. When the charge was treason, and the penalty death, that was something to celebrate.
Sinking back into pungent cushions, Gideon reflected on the interrogation.
The man had treated him with the combination of ill-concealed resentment and grudging respect he’d grown accustomed to over the years, thanks to his unique social position.
Even for those who did not know him, his above-average height and darker skin color, especially after prolonged time aboard one of his ships, marked him as an outsider from a foreign land, but his speech and manner and mode of dress pronounced him a member of the upper crust of British society, and extremely wealthy.
Those who did know him understood he was a bastard, born on the wrong side of the blanket, halfway across the globe.
He was also not only the acknowledged son of the Duke of Ashwood, but also his father had made it amply clear to all and sundry he would crush anyone who so much as looked at him the wrong way.
But that fact would not have saved him this time, not without the proof he had been handed in the form of one official marriage certificate, and a flesh and blood wife to go with it.
The date of the ceremony was key. It made it physically impossible for Gideon to have been present for the perpetration of selling arms to Napoleon’s forces.
According to Varley, a Spanish naval ship dispatched some five months ago to meet the convoy carrying rifles which Gideon’s consortium had sold the British allies in Cadiz not only witnessed his ship in the vicinity, but fired upon it, and hit their mark.