Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning
Lady Cecily Lane did not accuse the Marquess of Caldermere of cruelty.
Cruelty would have been simpler.
Gabriel sat opposite her in the pale blue drawing room of her brother’s town house while Lady Cecily’s aunt worked quietly at her embroidery near the windows, near enough to preserve propriety and distant enough to permit conversation.
He had chosen a plain dark coat and a sober dove-gray waistcoat, trying to button restraint into place.
The hour was early for a call, but Gabriel had not come socially. His father had once advised the Lane family in a minor matter, and Lady Cecily had agreed to receive him after Gabriel sent a note explaining that he required her candor on behalf of a client.
Gabriel had told Poppy he would make inquiries, and the promise had kept him awake half the night.
A prudent solicitor could defend the visit. Caldermere’s title, fortune, estates, and reputation made him a tempting solution to an urgent difficulty. Those advantages proved nothing about whether he would make Poppy a suitable husband.
But Gabriel had begun to distrust every neat explanation he gave himself.
He wanted Caldermere examined because Poppy deserved to know the truth before accepting him. He also wanted Caldermere examined because the thought of her belonging to that elegant, titled, perfectly composed man made something possessive and uncivilized move beneath Gabriel’s ribs.
He could not make an offer worthy of her.
He could, at least, make certain the man who could did not hide rot beneath polished manners.
Lady Cecily folded her hands in her lap.
She was perhaps three-and-thirty, handsome in a quiet, intelligent way, dressed in lavender silk with very little ornament.
Nothing about her suggested a woman ruined by disappointment.
Rather, she looked like someone who had examined disappointment carefully, named it, and declined to be governed by it.
“I do not wish to speak unfairly of Lord Caldermere,” she said. “Our engagement ended many years ago. We have both had ample opportunity to forget it.”
“I am not asking for gossip,” Gabriel replied. “Nor do I intend to repeat anything you tell me without permission.”
“I know. That is why I agreed to see you.”
She glanced toward her aunt, who did not look up from her embroidery.
“Caldermere is not a bad man,” Lady Cecily continued. “He is never violent, never intemperate. He does not shout, nor does he wound people merely for the pleasure of hearing himself do it. In many respects, he is admirable.”
None of this eased Gabriel’s concern. “Yet you ended the engagement.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
A faint, rueful smile touched her mouth. “Because I discovered he did not want a wife so much as a life arranged precisely to his liking, with a wife placed neatly inside it. You see, Lord Caldermere is in love with his longtime mistress.”
Gabriel went still.
It was not shocking, precisely. Noblemen with mistresses were hardly curiosities in London. Yet the image of Poppy being placed neatly inside Caldermere’s established life—ordered, contained, allowed only the space he deemed suitable—made Gabriel’s hand tighten upon his hat.
Lady Cecily’s gaze moved to it, then back to his face.
“At first, I thought his honesty admirable,” she said. “He told me plainly that he did not seek affection in marriage. He required a wife suitable to his position, discreet in her duties, sensible regarding the succession, and unlikely to make inconvenient claims upon him.”
“He told you that before the wedding?”
“Before the wedding. Not before the betrothal.” Her smile did not reach her eyes. “That was a meaningful distinction.”
“Yes.”
“He offered his name, his protection, his houses, every material comfort. He could not understand why those things were insufficient.”
Gabriel leaned forward slightly. “You wanted more?”
“Yes,” she said frankly. “I know not every lady would. But I seek to be valued as a companion rather than accommodated as an ornament.” She considered him, then added, “I was not a girl demanding poetry and moonlight. I did not expect grand passion from Caldermere. I did, however, think marriage ought to contain some measure of regard.”
“And he offered none.”
“He offered civility. He offered respect. In his mind, that was more than many wives receive.” She looked toward the windows, where pale morning light fell across her aunt’s embroidery frame. “Perhaps he was right.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened.
Lady Cecily looked back at him. “But I could not marry a man who had already given every private part of himself elsewhere and expected me to be grateful for whatever remained in public.”
The room was quiet for several breaths.
Then she said, “If your client is considering him, advise her to ask questions.”
“Such as?”
“Whether he still means to keep his mistress after marriage. Whether he expects separate lives after an heir is secured. Whether his wife may ask for more than comfort and consequence.” Lady Cecily’s expression softened, though her voice remained steady.
“Caldermere will provide everything money may purchase. A wife should not expect him to offer anything money cannot.”
At last, the bargain stood plainly before him: safety in exchange for silence of the heart.
Gabriel rose. “You have my thanks.”
Lady Cecily stood as well. “I hope I have not harmed him.”
“You have not.”
“Nor her?”
“No.” He paused. “Not if she is told before she chooses.”
Lady Cecily studied him. “Is your concern for this lady merely professional, Mr. Ashby?”
Gabriel could have lied. The lie would have been easy. “No,” he said.
Lady Cecily’s expression did not change, but understanding moved through her eyes. “Then be careful. A warning given from jealousy may still be true, but it rarely arrives gently.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Gabriel looked toward the window, where pale morning light touched the embroidery frame near Lady Cecily’s aunt. Caldermere could give Poppy shelter, rank, comfort, and a future free from the immediate threat of ruin. He could solve every visible problem.
Gabriel could solve almost none of them.
That had been the argument he used to restrain himself.
Then Lady Cecily had named the cost of that kind of bargain. A wife placed neatly inside a life already arranged around someone else. A lady given rooms, jewels, and civility while every private tenderness remained elsewhere.
The image of Poppy in such a marriage made Gabriel’s restraint feel less like honor and more like cowardice.
“I know enough,” he said at last. “And perhaps less than I should.”
Lady Cecily’s mouth softened. “Then tell her the truth, Mr. Ashby. All of it. Caldermere’s truth and your own.”
Gabriel bowed. “I shall try.”
He meant it.
The difficulty was that where Poppy was concerned, trying no longer seemed nearly enough.
Two days.
That was all that remained before Lord Montague arrived to take possession of the town house. Two days, and Gabriel was about to make Poppy’s safest choice far less safe.
He knew that as he climbed the steps to the Montfort house.
He had no right to want Caldermere dismissed. He had no right to hope Lady Cecily’s warning would turn Poppy’s heart away from a future Gabriel could not match.
But he had every right to tell Poppy the truth.
More than that, he owed it to her.
He had failed her each time he pretended distance was the same as honor. He had failed her each time he let silence make decisions for them both. Today, at least, he would give her facts instead of retreat.
And if those facts broke his own heart, he would have to endure it.
Jenkins admitted him with a look of visible relief. “Mr. Ashby.”
“Jenkins.”
“There has been a note, sir.”
Gabriel stilled. “From Lord Montague?”
“No, sir. Very heavily scented. I believe it is from Count Bellarosa. Though it’s addressed to Miss Montfort.”
Freddie sat beneath the hall table, staring at the envelope with deep suspicion.
“Where is Miss Montfort?” Gabriel asked.
“In the morning room, sir. Lord Caldermere is expected to call.”
Of course he was.
Gabriel found her in the morning room dressed in a plain morning gown of soft pink muslin, her hair pinned back with more neatness than ornament.
No violets softened the effect this time.
The tea tray had been set out, the cakes remained untouched, and the chairs had been arranged with all the grim civility of a negotiation.
Poppy sat beside the hearth with her hands folded in her lap, composed enough to receive an offer and possibly tired enough to accept one.
She looked prepared.
That made what he had to say worse.
“Gabriel,” she said, then seemed to recall herself. “Mr. Ashby.”
“Poppy.”
Her expression altered at the sound of her name. Then she saw his face. “What has happened?”
“I spoke with Lady Cecily Lane this morning.”
One brow shot up. “Who is Lady Cecily Lane?”
“Caldermere’s former betrothed.”
Poppy slowly closed her eyes. “Of course she is.” She blew out a deep breath and looked at him again. “How industrious of you.”
The edge in her voice was deserved.
Gabriel inclined his head. “Perhaps, because I did not trust the ease with which he offered everything you require.”
Poppy leaned down to adjust the tea tray, though it had no need of her attention. “Go ahead, then. What did Lady Cecily say?”
Gabriel chose each word with care. “She said Caldermere is not cruel. Not violent, not intemperate, and not overtly unkind.”
Poppy’s mouth tightened. “A devastating report.”
“She also said his affections are already engaged elsewhere. He intends to marry because his title requires an heir, not because he wants a wife in any private sense. In exchange for his name, protection, and every material comfort, his wife will be expected to make no claim upon his heart and to ignore the woman who already possesses it.”
Her fingers stilled against the tray.
“She broke the engagement,” Gabriel continued, “because she wished to be valued as a companion, not merely installed as the appropriate marchioness.”
“I see.”