Chapter Eight
The following morning, Gideon trotted down the steps and made for the breakfast hall—late.
Half-past nine. He tended to arise and take his breakfast unfashionably early as he considered sleeping in a waste of the day.
However, he had lain awake until the wee hours of the morning, thanks to Gwen and their thought-provoking conversation.
And that hideous, yet somehow utterly provocative, gown.
He stepped into the room, greeted by the rich scent of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked bread, and the sight of a blonde-haired woman seated at his table, holding a china cup aloft as she perused the morning paper.
His morning paper.
An odd sense of satisfaction lanced through him.
She glanced up, arching a wispy brow as she spotted him hovering in the doorway. “Good morning, Gideon.”
He strode toward the sideboard. “Good morning. I see you availed yourself of my copy of The Times. Anything interesting?” He filled his plate before taking a seat at the head of the table.
At least his new wife had not seen fit to seat herself there, instead opting for the place to his right.
“Apparently, all of London finds your return newsworthy.” Her eyes danced with merriment. “The Duke of Ashwood’s eldest son has returned to the fold,” she read aloud.
He snorted. The duke’s eldest son? He’d been called worse.
She went on, lush pink lips curving in a grin. “One can only speculate on the joyous reception he must have received upon reuniting with his estranged wife of seven months.”
Taking advantage of her preoccupation with the article, he slid his gaze over her in a lazy perusal.
She wore another matronly gown. This one fit better than last night’s and did appear well made, but the muted gray color, and high, unadorned neckline made it more something a hired lady’s companion might wear, and not by choice, unless she happened to be avoiding the advances of her employer.
It begged the question: If she could afford quality garments, why would she opt for such unfashionable, unflattering gowns?
Perhaps it had something to do with mourning.
“How long ago did you say your husband passed?” he asked in a low voice, helping himself to the front section of the paper.
She seemed to hesitate before replying. “Some three years ago.”
He scanned the headlines. Nothing jumped out at him. “Three years, and now, purportedly, a newlywed. One would expect you to cease going about in mourning, Gwen.”
She cleared her throat. “You disagree, however?”
“I beg your pardon?”
She bit her lower lip, and ducked her head.
In the morning light streaming through the east-facing windows, her blonde hair, even bound as it was in a knot at her nape, glinted like polished gold.
“You must find me a terrible daughter, considering my father died so recently. In my defense, before his death, he exacted my solemn promise not to go into deep mourning again, hence why I’m not wearing black crepe.”
It took a moment for him to grasp she thought he judged her for not following custom. Gideon opened his mouth to correct her misapprehension, then closed it with a snap. How could he phrase his low opinion of her clothing without insulting her?
A footman entered, carrying a silver coffee pot. He smiled politely and gestured toward the pot on the table. “May I, sir? We all know you prefer your coffee hot.”
“Thank you, Harry. How is your father getting along these days? Better, I hope?”
Harry’s smile widened as he made the exchange. “Very well, sir, thank you for asking. The special tea you gave us helps with his pain immensely.”
“Excellent,” Gideon said. “I shall see that you receive more.” He reached for the fresh pot and filled his cup.
He sipped, enjoying the bold roast and piping-hot brew. He slid a glance toward Gwen, curious to see if she, too, drank coffee, or if she stayed true to her British roots and preferred tea at breakfast.
The cup sat empty in its saucer.
He lifted his gaze to her face intending to ask if she’d like coffee.
His words died in his throat when he found her blue eyes locked on him, her expression that of one who’s made a welcome, if surprising, discovery.
Quite different from the blatantly sexual interest he was accustomed to receiving from women.
“Yes?” he drawled.
“Little wonder,” she murmured as if to herself, propping her elbow on the table and dropping her chin in her hand to continue her study. “The household staff seemed inordinately fond of you. I begin to see why.”
He forked up some eggs, noting the absence of a plate before Gwen. “I have no notion what you mean. Are you not hungry?” He gestured to the empty space.
“I’ve eaten. I’m an early riser, generally, and prefer a light breakfast such as fresh fruit in the mornings, I’m afraid, dear though it is.”
He sliced off a bite of ham, his mouth twitching. She did have expensive tastes, his wife. Luckily, he could afford it. He returned to his previous topic. “You said your husband died three years ago. How, if you do not mind me asking?”
She stiffened visibly, her indulgent expression vanishing.
“An accident.” Hurried movement followed, as if she suddenly remembered she had somewhere to be.
She refolded the newspaper section she’d been reading, angled it toward him, and pushed back from the table.
“I should get started on my day. What have you got planned, sir?”
He dabbed his mouth with his serviette and pinned her with a stare. “I must see to my backlog of correspondence and then I have several calls to make. What sort of accident?”
The thin skin at the base of her throat trembled with the rapidity of her heartbeat. “A shooting accident.”
“I see.”
He had not known her long. Long enough, however, to discern Gwen liked to talk. She had strong opinions and did not hesitate to share them. To say she did not wish to speak of her late husband, then, would be an understatement.
“Gwen,” he began gently. Without making a conscious decision to do so, he grasped one of her hands in his, brushing his thumb over her knuckles, back and forth, back and forth. Her skin was so incredibly soft. “As your husband, these are things I should know.”
“Of course.” She sent him a bright smile that did not reach her eyes. “And now you do.”
With reluctance, he released her. “I believe another late-night visit is in order, if you are willing.”
Twin splotches of color appeared high on her cheeks. “Of course,” she said again, sounding somewhat breathless.
“Excellent.” With an effort of will, he returned his attention to his plate.
Before coming down to breakfast, he had not made up his mind which of his remaining two consortium members to visit first. Thanks to Gwen’s obvious reticence to discuss her husband, his decision was made.
A somber-faced, shapely woman sporting a form-hugging men’s suit collected Gideon from the foyer of the Lyon’s Den and led him through the familiar gambling arena which, even at not quite two in the afternoon, teemed with life.
Gideon glanced about at the myriad games in various stages of play.
Beleaguered looking men stood around a green baize table, studying their cards and weaving on their feet as if on the brink of exhaustion while on-lookers lounged about shouting words of encouragement.
In another area, a woman wearing, by all appearances, bejeweled scarfs in lieu of an actual gown, tossed a gleaming butcher knife at a board, before which stood a man, face frozen in terror. When the knife made purchase on the board inches from the man’s ear, a cheer went up amongst his companions.
Next Gideon glimpsed a seated, shirtless man, blindfolded, accepting items from a woman whose face was concealed behind a domino mask and whose clothing consisted of scraps of slinky lingerie. He nodded at the staff member standing watch over the pair and continued on.
He saw cards being dealt, dice shaken and tossed, and a snake charmer playing his flute to summon a cobra from a tall wicker basket, the sort sold on the streets in Calcutta. Turning off the gaming floor onto a quiet corridor, he thought he saw the cobra strike. He definitely heard a man’s scream.
His guide led him halfway down the corridor, then gestured him into a small drawing room, leaving him with a promise that Mrs. Dove-Lyon would join him shortly.
He clasped his hands behind his back and moved to stand at the lone window, peering through the shutters to the neighboring manor, or rather the neighboring manor’s high, vine-covered privacy fence.
The door opened. He turned to see the proprietress of the Lyon’s Den enter, outfitted in her usual widow’s weeds, down to the netted cap which concealed her hair and all of her face, save her mouth. She closed the door and angled her face toward him. “Hello, Gideon. I see you got my message.”
“I received no message.”
“Didn’t you?”
He considered her words. “My marriage, you mean?”
She inclined her head.
“You expect me to believe you orchestrated this whole charade—my fake marriage, accompanying paperwork, and wife to draw me home?”
Her mouth firmed. “It worked, did it not? You’re here.”
“So I am. But if this was your plan, why wait? Why now?” Why Mrs. Barnes, he wanted to ask, but a long habit of guarding his thoughts, especially those which might be misconstrued, held him back.
“The timing, the circumstances.” Her lips twitched with some private amusement. “The woman.”
“Enough of your vagaries, Bessie,” he said, not bothering to hide the menace in his voice. “I demand to know what game you’re playing.”
She gave only the slightest indication his tone had rattled her. But he knew her enough to catch the tell. The slight tensing of her lips. Good. Rattled, he stood a chance of getting straight answers from her, emphasis on chance. With Bessie, one never knew.
“Have a seat, Gideon,” she said. “I’ll ring for tea.”
“Coffee,” he said.
“As you wish.”
She took her time pouring. Not until they both held a steaming cup did she settle into her chair.