Chapter Four #2
Gideon had reacted to the testimony with just the right amount of surprise and scorn, if he did say so himself, adding that any number of sharp-built brigs similar to his existed.
Varley reluctantly conceded the evidence against Gideon was circumstantial, at best. Nevertheless, he had not dismissed him immediately.
Instead, Gideon endured an hour more of questioning centered primarily on his relationship with his first captain, Dirk Kennedy, who had commanded the vessel carrying the rifles.
The undersecretary repeatedly asked whether Gideon had foreknowledge the man intended to commit treason by selling the rifles to Napoleon albeit in different ways meant to confound him and make him admit “the truth.”
As Gideon could honestly say he had no such foreknowledge, the questioning proved fruitless.
Varley had stopped short of promising the accusation would be written off. He informed Gideon the Home Office would review the pertinent facts and make its recommendation to the solicitor general.
Gideon was no fool. He knew the marriage certificate alone did not account for his avoiding a drawn-out, public investigation into the consortium’s misappropriation of weaponry.
It did, however, tidy things up for the Home Office and allow them to save face.
Better to cite the flimsy marriage certificate than publicly cave to the pressure of the inestimable Duke of Ashwood and his demands to desist branding his eldest son a traitor.
Not that anyone had told Gideon of the duke’s interference.
No one had to.
The rain stopped as the cab arrived in front of number 38 Grosvenor Square. Gideon hopped down, tossed some coins to the driver, then strode through the wrought iron gate and up the stone walkway.
No sooner had he employed the iron knocker, than the heavy front door swung open.
Mr. Lyle, the duke’s ancient butler who’d run the manse as long as Gideon could remember, greeted Gideon with a warm smile, and ushered him inside.
“Mr. Devereux, how good it is to see you, sir. Your brother, Lord Ashwood, will be overjoyed at your arrival.”
“Good, he’s in. Where might I find him?” Gideon asked, shrugging out of his coat.
Mr. Lyle took the garment and waited, palm out, as he stripped off his leather gloves. “In his den, sir. Shall I announce you or would you rather see to that yourself?” The older man grinned, knowingly.
“Thank you, Mr. Lyle. I know the way.”
Gideon headed for the den, unable to take in the familiar surroundings without recalling scenes from his boyhood, and the days he resided with the duke and his wife, when they split their time between London and Surrey.
In his mind’s eye, he saw his father coming down the broad staircase, or sitting at the breakfast table reading his newspaper, or presiding behind his desk in the den his brother now claimed as his own.
The duke would have been about Gideon’s age, then.
Gideon had not known the man as the formidable powerhouse he was, but as his father, who always had a warm smile and twinkle in his eyes for his eldest son. A father who always saw him as better, braver, and smarter than he was—something the duchess never failed to remark upon.
She hadn’t meant to be deliberately cruel. She simply resented her son, Grayson, having to share their father’s attention and praise. Mayhap she was right to do so.
Reaching the den, he rapped his knuckles on the doorjamb.
Grayson, Viscount Ashwood and heir to the dukedom, lounged atop a large armchair near the hearth reading a journal. He looked up, a questioning gaze on his face. The moment he spotted Gideon, he tossed the journal aside and leapt to his feet. “Gideon, at last.”
In seconds flat, Gideon found himself wrapped in a warm embrace. He returned the gesture, patting his younger brother’s shoulder. “Good to see you, Grayson.”
Grayson grasped Gideon’s arms and leaned back, his caramel-colored eyes wide and brimming with a combination of relief and consternation. “But where have you been? When did you return? I had begun to despair ever laying eyes on you again.” His rapid-fire speech left no room for Gideon to reply.
“And look at me, holding you captive in the doorway. Come in, come in.” He pointed toward the sitting area he’d vacated. “Sit, I’ll get us a brandy.”
“Thank you. I could use one.”
Grayson paused halfway to the credenza. “Are you hungry? I can have Cook fix something—”
“A brandy will suffice.” He would save his appetite for tonight, when he dined with Gwen. At the thought of her, another burst of anticipation shafted through him before he could staunch the unwelcome response.
Grayson grinned and continued to the credenza, reminding Gideon of how he’d looked as a boy, ever genial and aiming to please his older brother. “When did you get back?” As he poured, he eyed the open door.
“This morning.”
He scooped up the snifters, veered toward the door to close it with a kick of his booted foot, then rejoined Gideon, speaking all the while. “You won’t believe what I have to tell you. So much has happened.”
He handed Gideon a snifter.
“I’m all ears.”
“First, I must know where you’ve been. You should have returned from India months ago.”
Thirteen months ago, Gideon had sailed his sleek brig for Calcutta—purportedly the same ship on which Gwen and her father had booked passage.
Grayson, and the other members of his consortium, had expected Gideon to return to England no later than October, November at the latest. It was now February.
“Something unexpected kept me longer than I’d planned.”
Grayson’s expression turned speculative. “Something unexpected, as in your business interests proving more complicated than you’d anticipated, or…?”
“They did, yes, but no, that’s not the something to which I refer.” He gave Grayson a steady look and waited for the reaction.
“By God, no,” he burst out. “Never say you married that—”
“Watch it,” Gideon cut in, his voice like a whip crack. In truth, the ferocity that welled up inside him when his brother started to wield whatever slur he’d intended for Mrs. Gwendolyn Barnes surprised Gideon as much as it seemed to shock Grayson, by the look on his brother’s face.
Just playing a role, he assured himself. He must be convincing. If the ruse backfired, he did not want his brother suffering any fallout.
Never bring scandal down on your father or brother. The duchess’s oft-spoken words echoed in his head. They deserve far better from you after all they have sacrificed on your behalf.
Grayson seemed to draw into himself. Speaking of roles, Grayson could play the wounded younger brother to perfection.
“So it’s true. You are married. I admit I doubted her claim, but that is only because of how you’ve been since losing Fannie and the babe.”
Gideon nearly stopped breathing as the old anger rose up within him. His brother dared utter the subject, and in such a casual manner, no less? “People change,” he said and sent Grayson a chilly smile.
Confusion clouded his brother’s expression, as if he didn’t understand the gaping rift between them. He bloody well did. He simply was not man enough to own up to what he’d done, nor to utter an apology, nor even a thank you.
It was a long time ago, Gideon told himself. Time enough for Grayson to make amends. If he hadn’t by now, he never would. But he could stop with the injured party act. Gideon was bored with the interchange.
“My wife tells me you’ve visited her on multiple occasions and that you were not particularly welcoming.”
“I thought…Look, Gid, what was I to think? For years now, you’ve given every indication marriage is off the table for you. You’ve no time for marriage-minded women, preferring to keep the company with only those you deem safe—”
“Safe? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Grayson, to his credit, did not back down. “Attractive widows come to mind. Those just shy of demimonde status. Definitely no one of the aristocracy, which your wife certainly is.
“One woman in particular held the coveted title of mistress to the Gideon Devereux for the last year and some months you resided in London. Mrs. Emily Trent, I believe? A woman who fit the bill nicely. The non-clingy type. You hate those. A woman who’d married up, and who exercises discretion, aside from her tendency to boast to the other ladies who failed to catch your fancy. ”
“She what?” That had to be wrong.
Grayson nodded. “Ask Brice. He’s who told me.”
Of course. Brice, their childhood friend, and the one who’d pushed Gideon to form the consortium that landed him in this mess, had a knack for stirring up drama.
“This is absurd,” Gideon muttered before ingesting a large swallow of brandy and welcoming the burn.
“Why would I not assume you did not wish to marry again?”
In truth, he didn’t wish to, but he could hardly admit that now, seeing as he was claiming to have done just that.
His father had always told him Marry for love, Gideon. Unlike your brother and me, you don’t have the title to hold you back. You don’t need to deal with these blue-blood sycophants. Cast your net wide, son.
But as far as Gideon could tell, there was no such thing as love. There was lust, certainly, which was often confused with the sentiment and faded with the season.
Then there was what a woman could use a man for, be it prestige, or money, or safety.
Then there were those women who acted as if Gideon should be grateful they deigned to bestow their favors on a man such as him.
The English roses, like Fannie. She’d certainly rued the day the two of them wed, and hadn’t minded telling him.
It hadn’t stopped her from enjoying sharing his bed.
Now, he pictured his bluestocking fake wife, with her creamy complexion and flaxen hair, her eloquent manner of speaking and lithe form. He’d known she hailed from a noble line before she’d even mentioned her father’s titled brother.