Chapter Two #2
Gabriel felt the danger of it with unwelcome clarity.
Miss Montfort faced him with brisk, embarrassed courage while trying to brace an entire house with her shoulders and call it courtesy.
A weaker man would admire that and mistake admiration for obligation.
A lonely one would want to help her simply because she needed help.
Gabriel intended to avoid both traps.
“Miss Montfort,” he said, “I am here to review the accounts, not to inspect the household.”
“Fortunate,” she replied, “as the household is not at its best.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Is it often at its best?”
The question escaped before he could prevent it.
But instead of taking offense, the corner of Miss Montfort’s lips twitched. “We have been unable to determine that. It changes far too quickly.”
He should not smile. But he very nearly did.
From the salon came the same woman’s voice again. “Poppy! If Mr. Ashby has arrived, tell him I am in mourning.”
Miss Montfort turned her head to the side. “Mama, you are not in mourning. Papa died ten years ago.”
“I may be in mourning for someone else,” Lady Viva called back. “The day is young.”
Gabriel glanced toward the open salon door.
Miss Montfort moved half a step, neatly blocking his view. It was done smoothly enough, but Gabriel had spent years watching men lie over wills, debts, settlements, and deeds. He recognized concealment when he saw it, even when it wore a pink mouth and an apologetic expression.
“My mother is not at her most practical before luncheon,” Miss Montfort said.
He poked his cheek out with his tongue. “And after luncheon?”
Miss Montfort considered this with admirable gravity. “That depends entirely upon what was served with it.”
The puppy barked again at Gabriel’s boot.
Miss Montfort looked down. “Freddie. No.”
Freddie placed one small paw on Gabriel’s polished leather and stared up at him in frank challenge.
Gabriel stared back. He frowned at the dog.
“I believe he considers you an intruder,” Miss Montfort said.
“He is not entirely mistaken.”
Something flickered in her face then, so quickly another man might have missed it. Her smile remained, but the brightness shifted like a candle moving behind glass.
She had heard more in the remark than he had intended.
Good. Perhaps that was best. She might as well understand from the start that he did not mean to become another fixture in this house, another man smoothing over Lady Viva’s extravagances while pretending the roof was not on fire.
He inclined his head. “If Lady Montague is receiving, I should pay my respects before we begin.”
“Oh,” Miss Montfort said. “There is no need.”
“I think there is.”
“No, truly. Mama is…” She glanced over her shoulder, clearly attempting to locate a word that would not require repentance. “Occupied.”
A burst of laughter rolled from the salon, followed by a male voice saying, “But my dear lady, the Spanish understand passion as the English understand toast.”
Gabriel lifted a brow.
Miss Montfort winced. “Quite occupied.”
“Nevertheless.”
He stepped forward, and she had little choice but to lead him toward the salon.
The scene within would have been impressive had it not been horrifying.
Lady Viva Montfort reclined in a chair upholstered in faded gold, wearing light-purple silk and an expression of exquisite mischief.
A curl of bright red hair fell over one eye in a manner that might have been careless in any other woman.
On her, Gabriel suspected it required effort.
Around her gathered an assortment of persons who appeared to have been collected from different corners of London and left to ferment.
Lady Viva looked up.
For a moment, her face changed.
She was older than Gabriel had expected, though not old and still quite beautiful. Her eyes went soft when they landed on him, not with attraction, but memory. He had seen that look before on clients who had trusted his father and were startled to find his son in his place.
Then it vanished beneath delight. “Good heavens, sweetie,” Lady Viva said. “They have sent me a handsome one.”
“Mama,” Miss Montfort said, her voice faint with mortification.
“What? I have eyes. Must widowhood rob me of those as well?”
Gabriel bowed. “Lady Montague.”
“You are Mr. Ashby’s son?” Lady Viva held out a hand, all theatrical welcome and bright curiosity. “Come closer, darling. I wish to see whether you have his nose.”
Gabriel obeyed because refusing would be rude, and because, despite every instinct he possessed, he found himself curious.
Lady Viva studied him for a few seconds. “You do not. A pity. His nose made him look trustworthy.”
“His integrity did that, I believe,” Gabriel said, clearing his throat.
Her smile deepened. “Oh, very good. Grave, but not dull. That is rarer than one hopes.”
Miss Montfort made a small sound. Gabriel could not tell whether it was embarrassment or amusement. “Mr. Ashby has come about the ledgers,” she said.
Lady Viva sighed and leaned back. “Ledgers. How dreary. I have long believed numbers are simply rumors written by men with poor imaginations.”
A pale man draped along the far end of a sofa lifted one hand. “I have often said the same of mortality.”
“No, you haven’t,” Miss Montfort said.
“No,” he agreed, after a moment. “But I might have, had I not been so weak.”
Gabriel looked at him.
Miss Montfort followed his gaze. “Mr. Loxley is a poet.”
“Ah.”
“And dying,” Mr. Loxley added.
“Not today,” Miss Montfort said.
“One cannot know,” Lady Viva added.
“One can strongly suspect,” Miss Montfort replied.
Gabriel lowered his gaze to hide the expression that threatened his composure.
This place was every bit as nonsensical as he’d expected.
His father had loved this house. Sense had never been its charm.
Order had never stood a chance. Every room seemed to be bursting with life, noise, and feeling, all of it pressing against the careful walls Gabriel had spent years building inside himself.
It was the sort of place that invited a man to care against his will, if he were foolish enough to step too far inside.
Gabriel had no intention of being foolish.
Lady Viva waved vaguely toward a chair. “Sit, Mr. Ashby, darling. Have champagne. Or coffee. Or whatever Poppy has decided I am permitted to drink this morning.”
“You are permitted coffee,” Miss Montfort said.
“See?” Lady Viva gave Gabriel a mournful look. “Tyranny.”
“Coffee will do,” Gabriel replied.
“Coffee is oppressive,” Lady Viva replied with a sigh.
Miss Montfort crossed to the small table beside her mother and removed the champagne flute with swift, practiced grace. Lady Viva let it go, but not without another sigh of operatic proportions.
Gabriel watched the movement. There was nothing sharp in Miss Montfort’s manner. No visible resentment. She did not scold like a governess or plead like a child. She simply redirected…smoothed…managed.
The household chaos flowed toward her from every direction, and she seemed to meet it all with soft hands, quick wit, and the bright composure required to carry a tray full of crystal over cracked ice.
His father had seen this. Of course he had.
He’d seen it and had stayed.
That, precisely, was the trouble.
“If it is convenient,” Gabriel said, “I should like to begin my review of the ledgers.”
Miss Montfort turned back to him. “Yes. Of course. They are in the study.” After a beat, she added, “Most of them.”
Gabriel frowned. “Most?”
“The important ones.” Another beat. “Probably.”
Lady Viva laughed. “Poppy keeps everything, sweetie. Scraps of paper, bills, letters, bits of ribbon. She is like a dragon with a tidy hoard.”
“I am not a dragon,” Miss Montfort said, scowling.
“No, darling. Dragons breathe fire. You merely breathe disappointment when someone moves your inkstand.”
Gabriel looked at Miss Montfort’s face and saw, for the first time, a flash of real weariness before she tucked it away. “Shall we?” she said brightly.
Too brightly.
Gabriel inclined his head. “Lead the way.”
The study sat at the back of the house and bore the scars of several competing purposes.
It had once been a gentleman’s room, the late viscount’s, no doubt.
The bones of it remained: dark shelves, a heavy desk, a globe in the corner, worn leather chairs, and a mantelpiece bearing a portrait of a light-haired gentleman with kind eyes and a laughing mouth.
But the room had been invaded.
Bills rested in neat stacks atop the desk. Fabric samples sat in a basket near the hearth. A broken fan lay beside sealing wax, a ribbon, two invitations, a dog-eared book of poems, three quills, and what appeared to be a child’s toy doll.
Miss Montfort moved quickly to the desk, shifting the ribbon aside, righting an ink pot, straightening a pile of papers that did not require straightening.
Gabriel noticed.
She noticed him noticing. “I know where everything is,” she said.
“I did not say otherwise.”
“You looked as if you were thinking it.”
“I assure you, Miss Montfort, I usually take greater pains to conceal my thoughts.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” She opened a drawer and withdrew a set of ledgers bound in cracked brown leather. “You have a very expressive disapproving silence.”
He looked at her.
She froze, then gave a quick laugh. “Forgive me. That was rude.”
“It was accurate,” he allowed.
Her eyes widened, and this time he did smile, though it was small and barely there.
Still, it felt like a lapse.
She stared at him for just long enough that he became aware of his own mouth, a development no reasonable gentleman could defend.
And yet the awareness moved through him in a slow, gathering heat.
Gabriel prided himself on measured silence, and he had never been so conscious of what his mouth might do if left unsupervised.
Miss Montfort turned abruptly and set the ledgers on the desk. “Here. This is the household account for the last year. This one is tradesmen. This one is older debts. This one is…” She paused, touching the cover of a thinner book. “This one is mine.”