Chapter Twelve
The sun was on the horizon when Gideon opened the front door of his town house and handed off his great coat, hat, and gloves to Higgins.
“Is my wife at home?” Amazing how quickly he’d gotten used to referring to her as such.
“No, sir. She went out shortly after you this afternoon, and has yet to return. Seemed to be in a terrible hurry.”
He frowned, aware of a sense of disappointment at the news, even though it most likely meant she’d taken his suggestion to do something about her dismal wardrobe to heart. He hoped so, for her sake. Either way, tomorrow night she would appear before the Duke and Duchess of Ashwood.
“Mr. Tyrell is here. I told him I hadn’t any idea when you or Mrs. Devereux might return, and suggested he might call again when expected.” Higgins sniffed in evident disapproval.
Gideon clapped his long-time butler on his shoulder. “Poor Higgins. No one follows a proper schedule these days. Where did you leave him?”
“In the library, sir. I thought it best he not be left to peruse your office, especially if Mrs. Devereux returned before you. She makes use of the chamber from time to time.”
Gideon grinned, then remembered Gwen’s atelier furnishings. “By any chance, did Mrs. Devereux commandeer a reading table from the library?”
“Aye, sir. And a chair.”
He considered that. Perhaps he should invest in a desk Gwen could utilize for the duration of her stay. “Please see Mr. Tyrell to my den. I’ll go there directly.”
“Very good, sir.”
Brice did not wait for Higgins to announce him, but slipped past the butler.
“At long last, the missing third in our band of brothers returns to the fold.” He fisted his hands on his narrow hips. The gold buttons of his waistcoat gleamed in the glow of the oil lamps Gideon raised upon entering.
Brice went on as if orating before Parliament. “Does he send word of his arrival? Does he pay his closest friend a call? No, he does not. His friend is forced to learn of his homecoming through a gambling ledger at White’s.”
Gideon propped a hip on his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve been back little more than twenty-four hours and had every intention of calling on you. I got delayed, thanks to the duke’s unscheduled arrival.”
Brice’s affectation of annoyance faded in an instant.
He sauntered toward the plush seating area before the hearth, tugging on his lacy cuffs, then dropped onto the sofa in a laconic sprawl.
“Yes, I suppose Ashwood would trump me. He trumps everyone for you, just as you do for him. Poor Grayson. The jealousy eats him alive.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Gideon said. He joined Brice, taking his preferred armchair. “What’s this about a gambling ledger?”
“What do you think they’re betting on? Lord W bets Lord H that a certain merchant shall be in custody in a matter of two days.
Mr. C bets Lord B that Mr. D will see no prison time,” he quoted, as if from memory.
“What have you got yourself into, Devereux? Come to think of it, what have you got me into?”
“I was as shocked as you to learn of the foiled arms deal, Brice. As for what’s kept me busy, perhaps you haven’t heard, but I acquired a wife since last we spoke.”
Crossing his arms behind his neck, he studied Gideon. “Ah, yes. The mysterious Mrs. Devereux. What does the duke think of her?” Brice asked in a casual tone.
“They haven’t yet met.”
“Ah. Hence the duke’s arrival. Grayson isn’t overly fond, I can tell you that.”
“Yes, but why would you?” Gideon asked, his voice deceptively soft—for one who didn’t know him well.
Brice knew him. His rich chestnut brows furrowed. “Thought you ought to know. Forewarned, and all that.”
“I can handle my brother.”
He sent Gideon a speaking look. “No doubt. Tell me about her, then. She must be something quite rare to have induced you to change your stance on marriage.”
“We came together at the right time and right place. What’s more, the duke has been pressuring me to take a wife.” Not true, but Brice would have no way of knowing that. “And I had no stance on marriage.”
“Sure, sure. So?”
“She’s…” His ears pricked up at sounds coming from the front hall. Gideon eyed the door, a sense of impending disaster settling over him. He should have instructed Higgins to see that no one, including his wife, disturb them.
It wasn’t that he didn’t wish to see her. He more felt an odd measure of protectiveness.
Not that Brice tended towards pomposity. He moved among the elite only thanks to his choice of vocation—and his ties to the Duke of Ashwood’s sons.
Still. Gwen, though inherently sharp-witted and long out of the school room, did not appear to have developed the hardened veneer most Londoners achieved by the time they reached adulthood.
She burst through the door on a cloud of energy and light. She still wore the unfortunate gray dress. Her hair, however, was no longer restrained in the severe knot she favored.
He straightened to greet her.
“Good afternoon, Gideon.” She closed the door and hurried toward him wearing a jaunty grin.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Brice unfold from the sofa.
“You may rest assured, sir, I have dealt with the—oh.” She jammed to a halt, a span short of the seating area. “You have a guest. I should…” She waggled her fingers in the direction of the closed door.
“On the contrary, Gwen. I wish to introduce you to someone.”
“Very well.” She continued forward, her gaze shifting to Brice.
“I believe I’ve mentioned him to you—Mr. Brice Tyrell, Parliament’s rising star. He and I grew up together. Brice, meet Mrs. Gwendolyn Devereux, my wife.”
Brice gave Gwen a bow and probably would have kissed her knuckles, had Gwen offered her hand. But she didn’t, a fact that pleased Gideon for some reason.
“An honor to meet you, madam. Gideon was just telling me about how you met—aboard his ship? Have I got that right?”
Gideon glanced sharply at Brice, wondering exactly where he’d picked up his facts. Probably Grayson.
“Indeed,” she murmured. A pink flush over her porcelain cheeks accompanied her words, as usual. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. I haven’t had the opportunity to meet many of Gideon’s close associates.”
Brice snorted. “That goes without saying. He hasn’t many—close associates, that is. For some odd reason, he doesn’t trust easily.”
Gwen gave a graceful, one-shouldered shrug. Even in that unfortunate dress, she managed to make the gesture appear elegant. “‘Choose your friends as you would your books—few but choice.’”
Brice blinked.
Her intriguing dimple winked in and out of view. “Samuel Johnson, circa 1760 by most estimations.”
A tinge of admiration shone in Brice’s dark gaze. “The same Samuel Johnson who published A Dictionary of the English Language?”
Her glance shifted between Gideon and Brice. “Why, yes. He’s a favorite of mine.”
The look he shot Gideon said he found her off-hand knowledge impressive. “You’ll have to stay on your toes if you want to keep up with this one, Gid.”
“I’m aware,” he said.
Brice crossed his arms over his chest. His gaze drifted over Gwen as if rethinking his first impression.
Gideon found he did not like his oldest friend scrutinizing Gwen from head to toe. He wondered briefly if she found the well-dressed, immaculately coiffed Englishman attractive with his broad forehead and cleft chin. Not that it mattered.
“I suppose you’re looking forward to meeting the duke and duchess tomorrow. Oh—you didn’t know?” he asked in practically the same breath.
He was deliberately testing her. Gideon decided he would give it another minute then find a way to extricate Gwen from the scene.
“Gideon mentioned his father was in town and that we would likely call on Lord and Lady Ashwood tomorrow evening, but I had not gotten confirmation—until now.”
“Leave it to me,” Brice said with mock humility. “I’m sure he’s filled you in on all the minutiae concerning the duke and duchess and Grayson, and myself for that matter. You must know how close he and his brother are, for one thing.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
Brice slid Gideon a coy look, as if he’d found her out.
He opened his mouth to put an end to Brice’s subtle interrogation.
“Especially as youngsters.” Gwen’s expression turned nostalgic. “I can just imagine the three of you, racing along the chalk hills—when Gideon and his brother’s studies allowed. You were a particularly bad influence, were you not?”
“Me?” he protested with a laugh.
“Was it or was it not your idea for the three of you to climb the garden wall that ended with Gideon’s arm in a sling?”
Gideon stared at her.
Brice erupted with raucous laughter. “Oh-ho, so he has told you about me.”
“He also described the time you and Grayson pulled him from the river. That was particularly well done of you.”
Gideon moved to Gwen’s side. He wrapped one arm around her waist in a casually possessive stance. “Why, darling, you never cease to amaze me. I can’t believe you actually remember those tales when I barely remember telling you them myself.”
Flushing, she glanced up at him, her straight white teeth worrying her lower lip. “Don’t you? Probably one of those long nights at sea after one too many glasses of Madeira.”
Madeira, indeed. “No doubt.”
Her dimple winked into existence and her eyes danced.
The urge, the need to kiss her, slammed through him. His fingers tightened reflexively, squeezing her midsection and drawing her incrementally closer.
Her blue eyes widened a fraction. She did not, however, look away, until Brice coughed into his fist—hiding laughter, though not very well.
The bloody man certainly seemed to be enjoying himself.
Gideon released her, and Gwen began backing for the door. “I’m sure you have much to catch up on. I shall leave you to it. Good day, Mr. Tyrell, Gideon.”
“Good day, Mrs. Devereux. It’s been an absolute delight meeting you,” Brice said with an ear-splitting smile.