CHAPTER FOUR THE WIDOW IN RED
Gabriel had spent most of his adult life believing surprise was a failure of preparation.
Surprise meant a door had opened where one expected a wall, a husband had returned before dawn or a cabinet minister had consumed less brandy than appearances suggested.
It meant someone had changed the rules without informing him, and Gabriel had built his reputation, his intelligence work and a considerable portion of his survival upon recognising rules before other people realised they existed.
He therefore objected on principle to the sight of Eleanor Finch in red.
He had prepared a greeting while crossing the entrance hall of Rothmere House.
It was light, mildly provocative and designed to suggest that their last lesson had not occupied an unreasonable portion of his thoughts during the intervening three days.
He intended to remark upon her progress, inquire whether she had practised looking at men’s mouths and perhaps remind her that kissing an instructor into temporary incoherence did not constitute mastery.
The greeting vanished when he entered Arabella’s private drawing room.
Eleanor stood upon a low fitting platform near the windows while Frances Pembroke adjusted the fall of a dark red gown around her feet.
The silk was not scarlet or crimson but the deeper colour of burgundy held against candlelight, rich enough to suggest wine, velvet curtains and other things best enjoyed in private.
Its bodice fitted Eleanor with an intimacy no grey day dress had ever attempted, narrowing beneath her breasts before giving way to skirts that skimmed her hips and fell in heavy folds toward the floor. The neckline was not indecent.
Gabriel’s body failed to appreciate the distinction.
It swept low across the pale upper curves of her breasts, exposing enough skin to make him remember precisely how those breasts had felt pressed against his chest in Arabella’s ballroom.
Short sleeves rested off her shoulders, leaving her collarbones, arms and the graceful line of her neck entirely bare.
Her dark hair had been arranged higher than usual, with several curls escaping in a manner too elegant to be accidental.
A garnet pendant lay just above the valley of her breasts.
Gabriel stopped inside the doorway. His prepared greeting became one word.
“Red.”
Eleanor looked toward him. Recognition moved through her expression, followed by something quieter and far more dangerous: satisfaction.
“Yes,” she said. “I had noticed.”
Frances straightened from the hem and studied Gabriel with delight. “He has forgotten how language works.”
“Temporarily,” Gabriel said.
“Should we call a physician?”
“No physician in London would accept the case,” Arabella said from a settee near the fire. “Most of them have daughters.”
Gabriel recovered sufficiently to bow. “Your Grace.”
“You may dispense with courtesy. We have already watched you stare at Eleanor’s breasts.”
Eleanor looked down at herself, and Gabriel’s gaze nearly followed before discipline intervened.
“I was examining the suitability of the disguise,” he said.
“From the doorway?” Frances asked.
“Distance allows objectivity.”
“Then you should stand in the street.”
Gabriel ignored her and crossed the room.
Sophia Grey sat at a writing table with several sheets arranged before her.
Clara occupied the chair beside Arabella, reviewing a list of invented financial details, while Beatrice leaned against the mantel wearing the expression of a woman who had arranged something troublesome and considered the result excellent.
The Society had approached the creation of Eleanor’s false identity with the seriousness of a diplomatic mission and the enthusiasm of women selecting a costume for an illicit play.
On the writing table lay baptismal records copied in Sophia’s hand, a Florentine hotel receipt dated two years earlier, a letter from a fictitious solicitor and several pages describing the brief, disappointing life of the late Mr. Grey.
Eleanor stepped carefully down from the platform.
The movement shifted the red silk across her body. Gabriel concentrated upon her face.
“Mrs. Helena Grey,” she said. “Widowed eighteen months ago in Florence after a marriage of four years.”
“Cause of death?”
“A fever.”
“Dull.”
“Respectable,” Sophia said.
“Respectable deaths invite fewer questions,” Eleanor added.
“Not always. A rich widow becomes more interesting if her husband died unexpectedly.”
Arabella lifted one brow. “Must every conversation with you become an argument for murder?”
“Only when the alternative is fever.”
Eleanor crossed toward the writing table and picked up one of the documents.
“Mr. Grey was a merchant with interests in Italian antiquities. He possessed a modest fortune, no title and no surviving English family. I inherited most of his money and returned to London because Florence had become inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient how?” Gabriel asked.
“I have not decided.”
“You need an answer.”
“I dislike inventing detail before it becomes necessary.”
“That is how false identities collapse.”
Sophia nodded. “Lord Ashcombe is correct.”
Gabriel offered Eleanor a gracious smile.
She looked unimpressed. “Enjoy the moment. It may be your last.”
Sophia continued. “The invented detail need not be volunteered, but it must exist. A determined questioner notices hesitation more readily than improbability.”
Eleanor glanced down at her papers. “Then I left Florence because one of my husband’s former associates became too attentive after his death.”
Gabriel’s amusement faded slightly.
“What kind of attention?”
“The unwelcome kind.”
“That invites questions.”
“It also explains why I returned without remaining close to my husband’s business acquaintances.”
“Name him.”
“Signor Bellandi.”
“Occupation?”
“Art dealer.”
“Age?”
“Forty-seven.”
“Married?”
“Twice.”
“To whom?”
Eleanor paused.
Gabriel smiled. “You see?”
“His first wife was English,” she said. “The daughter of a naval officer. His second is Florentine and twenty years younger than he.”
“Children?”
“Three sons from the first marriage and a daughter from the second.”
“Does the daughter resemble him?”
Eleanor gave him a cool look. “She resembles the milkman.”
Frances made a delighted sound.
Gabriel laughed despite himself. “That will do.”
Eleanor set down the paper. “Mrs. Grey has an interest in antiquities, enough money to avoid dependence upon relatives and no desire to marry again.”
“Why no desire?”
“Her husband was tedious.”
“He has already died of fever. Must he suffer insult as well?”
“Death should not improve a man’s conversation.”
Beatrice moved nearer. “She is also reputed to be discreet.”
“About what?” Gabriel asked.
“Other people’s marriages,” Catherine said from the doorway.
Gabriel had not heard her enter.
The countess removed her gloves as she crossed the room. “A widow without close family may be welcomed into households where wives require a sympathetic listener and husbands require someone they believe will not repeat their indiscretions.”
“A useful reputation,” Gabriel said.
“Your own has served you similarly,” Eleanor observed.
He looked at her. She held his gaze without effort, then turned away before the silence became his to control. The lessons were working. That knowledge should have pleased him. Instead, it produced an awareness uncomfortably close to apprehension.
Arabella rose. “The identity is strong enough for tonight’s salon. Gabriel will correct anything that fails under public pressure.”
“I am certain he will enjoy correcting me,” Eleanor said.
“I have found the activity unexpectedly stimulating.”
A faint colour moved across her cheekbones. Gabriel felt a surge of satisfaction, which lasted until she smiled as though allowing him the reaction deliberately.
Frances approached Eleanor with a velvet box. “Jewellery.”
Inside lay several pieces of gold and garnet: earrings, a bracelet shaped like twisting vines and a narrow brooch depicting a woman embracing a swan.
Gabriel stared at the brooch. “Leda?”
“Too obvious?” Frances asked.
“Only if she wears it upon her bodice while attending a gathering of men familiar with mythology.”
“That was the intention.”
“The intention should be suggestion, not announcing that Jupiter may descend at any moment.”
Frances looked disappointed.
Arabella selected the vine bracelet. “This belonged to my husband’s grandmother. No one currently living will recognise it.”
Eleanor held out her arm while Arabella fastened it around her wrist. The gold leaves lay against bare skin.
Gabriel imagined closing his hand around that wrist. The thought arrived too quickly and brought with it the memory of Eleanor’s fingers gripping his coat, her mouth opening beneath his and the involuntary movement of her body against his thigh.
He had left Rothmere House three nights earlier with an erection painful enough to make the carriage ride home a private exercise in discipline.
He had then spent the better part of an hour standing beneath cold water and another two hours reviewing intelligence reports without understanding a word of them.
Since then, he had avoided being alone with her. The strategy had been sensible. The red gown rendered it irrelevant.
Eleanor looked toward him. “Does the clothing pass inspection?”