Chapter Eight #2
“Good heavens, three callers and it’s not even four of the clock, girls.
You are quite popular, as I’d hoped. Although strictly speaking all the callers were for you, Matilda.
” Her brow furrowed as she regarded Phoebe.
“I understand you must feel overshadowed, Phoebe dear, but do try not to monopolize your cousin’s callers.
It’s not polite.” Her gaze strayed to the spots of blood on Phoebe’s gown and embroidery.
“Whatever have you done now, you clumsy child?”
Phoebe opened her mouth to reply, but she was interrupted by their fourth caller of the afternoon.
Austin Mowbray, Viscount Evesham strode into the drawing room as if he owned it, his presence commanding all three of them to look at him.
Which they did. One could hardly not as he was dressed in the height of fashion in a dark, cutaway tailcoat that fitted his wide shoulders like the proverbial glove.
Beneath this he sported a striped waistcoat in blue and gold and a shirt whose high pointed collar, which surely must prevent him turning his head to left and right, supported the most elaborate of cravats.
On his long, well-muscled legs he wore cream pantaloons tucked into hessian boots, and in his hand he carried an ebony cane tipped with silver.
A veritable vision. Phoebe had the uncomfortable suspicion he might be here to call on her, rather than Mattie. She had to hope he’d forgotten his inebriated declaration last night that he intended to marry her. Under cover of her embroidery, she crossed her fingers.
After a pause that went on a fraction too long in order for them to fully appreciate his loveliness, he swept them a flamboyant bow.
“Lady Brockwood, Lady Phoebe, Miss Nicholson, what a delightful picture you all make. Such industry, such sweet femininity. I declare myself astonished by such perfection.”
Fiddle-faddle. Phoebe’d never heard such rubbish.
Aunt Fanny fluttered in delight, as though she thought he might even be here to see her, reminding Phoebe of a hen with chicks.
She’d been very fond of the hens at Coakham.
“Why, Lord Evesham, what a surprise to see you here. How kind of you to call on me and my young ladies. Do take a seat and Phoebe will ring for Bowles. It seems a good moment to me to partake of some tea. Phoebe?”
Phoebe rose obediently and tugged on the bell pull.
She could have opened the door to call Bowles, who must have only been waiting in the front hall so he could let these gentlemen callers in and out, and she would indeed have preferred to do so, but etiquette had her tugging on the bell pull instead.
When she turned around she saw Lord Evesham had taken a seat on the settee next to her discarded sewing.
With careful deliberation she sat down on one of the more upright single chairs, as far away from Lord Evesham as she could, and folded her hands in her lap.
Aunt Fanny shot a disapproving frown at her and plunged into conversation with their new visitor.
A conversation designed to direct him towards Mattie, for which Phoebe could only thank her.
Having an aunt who put her own daughter before anyone else was quite an advantage at times.
But she had a nagging fear this wasn’t going to work.
Mattie probably didn’t have enough of an inheritance to satisfy a reprobate gambler.
If, that was, Gabriel had been correct in his description of Lord Evesham.
For his part, His Lordship seemed quite happy to talk to Mattie.
He’d probably realized during their dance that Phoebe was not much of a conversationalist. She began to think that perhaps he hadn’t come to see her at all, which was a great relief.
He was indeed handsome, in a cold, hard-featured kind of a way, but overly fond of his appearance.
However, he was not, she reflected, anywhere near as handsome as Gabriel.
Why she was hanging on to this dream of her ideal man, when he probably intended to keep well away from her if he had any sense, she had no idea, but she couldn’t quite let it go.
She stifled a yawn and thought longingly of her bed.
Which was when their fifth caller of the day arrived.
The drawing room door opened, and, as if she’d summoned him via her own thought waves, Gabriel walked into the room.
Phoebe blinked, her heart beginning to pound and heat rising unstoppably to her cheeks. Thank goodness she was no longer in the center of the room.
This was a very different Gabriel from the disheveled one she’d last seen in the early hours of this morning.
He wore a tailcoat of the same immaculate cut as Lord Evesham’s, but whereas Evesham had the sort of shoulders one might see on a gentleman fond of the boxing ring, Gabriel’s were narrower and more in fitting with his slimmer, more elegant build.
The coat, nonetheless, fitted him like a second skin.
Apart from his right arm, of course. There he’d allowed his coat to merely hang from his right shoulder and the arm itself rested in a brightly colored sling around the splinted limb.
But this was not quite the most noticeable thing about him. His hair was as immaculately styled as it had been at the ball, but the right side of his face, from just above his eye down to his chin and encompassing the eye and cheekbone themselves, was vivid with dark bruising.
Understandably his appearance drew gasps of shock from Aunt Fanny and Mattie, and even Evesham drew a sudden breath. If Gabriel had wanted to cause a stir on his entrance, he succeeded. The only person not shocked by his appearance was Phoebe.
“Good heavens, man,” Evesham said, after a moment. “What are you doing out and about looking like that? You’re frightening the ladies.”
*
Gabriel swept a bow to the assembled company, letting his gaze run over them but not linger on any single person, much as he would have liked to look at Phoebe alone and for a long time.
But he was swift in his observations, and he’d already noted a guarded expression slide across her face, swiftly following the deep blush he hoped no one else had noticed.
It should be safe to presume she wasn’t about to give him up as the Mayfair Highwayman.
Not yet, anyway. Not that he was here to reassure himself of that.
Lady Brockwood seemed to swell with satisfaction.
No doubt she was relishing the fact that her two charges had both the heir to an earldom and the younger son of a duke as callers on the same day.
Any of the ambitious mamas of the ton would probably kill to receive such an honor for their daughters.
“Lord Gabriel,” Lady Brockwood began, unable to keep the smile from her heavily powdered face. “How delightful to see you here. Pray do sit down and tell us all what catastrophe has befallen you to result in such injuries. We wait with bated breath, do we not, girls?”
Phoebe remained silent, but Miss Nicholson nodded with enthusiasm. “I for one should very much like to know how you came by your injuries. Your face. Your arm. My goodness me. Do tell.”
Gabriel obliged by taking a seat close to Phoebe’s.
Miss Nicholson nodded again, and, just in time, Phoebe joined in.
Evesham raised his eyebrows in enquiry. “As Miss Nicholson says, do tell. You Wycliffs are always up to some sort of escapade. Your brother Ambrose, with whom I was at Eton, was quite the one for turning up looking as though he’d gone five rounds with Jem Belcher, God rest that pugilist’s soul.
What has caused this rainbow of colors on your once-handsome face?
I fear you’ve quite spoiled your looks.” He sounded quite pleased about that last remark.
Gabriel gave him a nod. Not being at all fond of the fellow, he was somewhat annoyed to have found him already in residence on his arrival.
He had no intention of imparting the truth to him or anyone else.
“Fell off my horse. Well, not quite. I’ve not done that since I was a boy.
Damned thing fell with me on board. I put out my arm to save myself but it did no good.
Hit my face on some stones, which is why I look like this.
You’ll excuse me from smiling, ladies, but in truth it hurts to do so. ”
“But your arm, is it actually broken?” Miss Nicholson exclaimed. “That must hurt terribly. How brave you are to tolerate it with such equanimity.” And she batted her long lashes at him.
“It’s tolerable.” He wasn’t going to reveal to any of them that he’d had a good dose of laudanum before going out after his light luncheon at home, and this was giving him a delightful sense of euphoria and invincibility.
Having turned down all offers of a bed for the night in Denmark Street, it had been full daylight by the time the carriage that had delivered Phoebe home had returned to collect him.
It had taken him back to the house in Half Moon Street that he and Ambrose shared.
Neither of them were keen to associate overmuch with their father’s second wife, whose habit it was to take up residence for the Season, with or without the duke, in the house in Grosvenor Square.
He glanced down at his arm as though he’d not noticed it before. “You are remarkably astute, Miss Nicholson.”
She giggled, possibly unsure if this was polite banter or not.
Gabriel took the chance to turn to Phoebe. She was studying her hands where they lay folded in her lap. “Lady Phoebe, you must know that I rose from my sickbed with the sole intention of calling upon you today.”