Chapter Nineteen
Gabriel, still disguised as Joe Booth, walked the short distance to his lodgings in Half Moon Street which lay just off Piccadilly.
Hopefully his brother wouldn’t be in residence, although Ambrose wouldn’t be surprised to see him in these clothes.
He was well aware of his younger brother’s propensity for wandering London in disguise.
He’d even come with him a few times, although not into the St Giles Rookery nor anywhere near Denmark Street.
That was a secret Gabriel wasn’t about to share with him.
However, he didn’t feel in the mood for talking to him right now, nor, in fact, for talking with anyone.
He had to get things straight in his head, something he was finding it difficult to do.
Oblivious to the busy streets, all he could think of now he was alone was what Phoebe had offered him.
Her money. Well, marriage, so not just her money but herself as well.
He had to admit that was a more than enticing prospect.
But the offer had been phrased as one of money, not of love, and he’d been surprised to discover that wasn’t what he wanted.
This was all most confusing, because of course he wanted money.
He wouldn’t need to risk his own safety by sneaking into the houses of the far-too-rich to take what wasn’t his if he had money. And she represented money.
He shook his head in an effort to clear it.
He couldn’t deny her money would enable him to move on with his plans for a much larger establishment and also to take in many more of the orphaned children of St Giles.
A house in the country with gardens where they could play in fresh, smoke-free air would be his dream.
To be able to give these children the same sort of childhood he’d enjoyed.
So they could run and laugh and climb trees and learn to swim in a lake.
These were children who would either die without his help or be destined to repeat the lives of their parents.
Children who might end up transported to the colony in Australia before they were twelve years old for a crime such as stealing food because they were starving.
The more he could save from that and find gainful employment for, the better.
So why was he so bothered by Phoebe offering to marry him? Didn’t he want to marry her?
“Hey, you! Watch where you’re walking, you oaf!” The haughty driver of a smart curricle drawn by a pair of flashy bays waved an angry fist at Gabriel as he had to haul on his horses’ reins to prevent them trampling him, but Gabriel didn’t spare him a glance.
Back on the pavement, he slowed his pace as he thought, a frown marring his face that would have put anyone off speaking to him, had they been thus inclined.
The trouble was, he did like Phoebe. A lot.
More than he’d ever thought he could like someone.
Despite the trampling she’d done to his toes.
Maybe it would have been easier if he hadn’t been falling in love with her, because that very thing was happening, whether he liked it or not.
But just because of that, he couldn’t marry her as the sort of loveless business proposition she’d suggested. He couldn’t do that to her.
His scowl deepened.
She’d shown the same sort of pluck as Cecilia in venturing into the rookery with him.
She’d been terrified by what she’d seen, but not once complained.
She hadn’t demanded to be taken out. She’d come with him into the very center of its black heart, and she’d braved Abner’s garret.
She’d not even objected to carrying the money for him.
He hadn’t told her about the hands he’d felt exploring his pockets as they walked back through the St Giles streets. The hands he’d pretended not to notice.
Bravery was being frightened but still doing something.
And by that measure she was more than brave.
The scowl was replaced by a quick, rueful smile.
Look at how she’d dealt with an intruder in her bedroom.
She’d won that little altercation fair and square.
His throbbing arm and bruised face was proof of that.
Not just brave, but pretty, too. Beautiful, in fact.
Not that pretty mattered, nor beauty. Although it had been part of what had drawn him to her in the first place.
Along with her tempting pearls, of course, and the ferocity he’d had such a brief glimpse of.
Then, when she’d caught him, and he’d explained what he was about, she’d firstly believed him and secondly surprised him by giving him some of her jewels.
That showed a trust and strength of character he admired.
He shook his head to try to clear it. Perhaps all he was feeling was admiration.
He’d never been in love before, so how was he to tell if this was indeed love?
He’d had a variety of liaisons with ladies, despite his lack of years, and probably because of his own good looks.
Women liked him. They found him charming.
Both debutantes and their mothers fawned over him.
But did Phoebe, with her determined concern for the newfound poor, like him in the way he wanted her to like him?
Or was she only interested in his altruistic intentions?
But if that were true, would she have offered marriage?
He thought back to her hurried words. The more he did so, the more they sounded like a business arrangement.
She’d said she had to marry someone and it might as well be him.
This only made him more convinced that wasn’t what he wanted.
He’d liked women before, wanted them, even kept an actress as his mistress for a few months, but he’d never felt about any of them how he had to acknowledge he felt about Phoebe.
And the most annoying thing was he couldn’t put his finger on exactly how he felt. Frustration at his own inadequacies might have a part in it.
He ducked down Sun Court towards Shepherd’s Market, the crowds growing thicker, full of those who were after a different shopping experience to Bond Street and Oxford Street.
Ignoring the colorful bazaar, he took the small alley on the left that looked as if it went nowhere but would lead him to the back entrance to number 28 Half Moon Street, the house he shared with Ambrose when his brother was in Town. Which of course he was at the moment.
The door led into a corridor off which the kitchens opened. To the right lay the butler’s parlor and Mrs. Jackson, the housekeeper’s rooms, but their doors were closed. The tempting smell of roasting meat wafted through the partly open kitchen door, so Gabriel pushed it open and went inside.
Mrs. Watts, the cook, one of the many servants Ambrose paid for, was standing by the spit just in front of the hearth fire where a large joint was turning, its juices dripping into a pan underneath.
She straightened up when she heard him come in, and her round, doughy face, not unlike the buns she’d made him since he was a child, split into a wide smile.
She had no difficulty in recognizing him even with his disguise.
“Why, Master Gabriel, what a surprise to see you down here togged up like that again.” She set her hands on her wide back as though it ached, which it probably did as she must by now be approaching seventy.
She’d once been head cook at Wentworth, but when Ambrose had wanted to set up his own London establishment twelve years since, and she’d been feeling her age, the duchess had decreed that she should move to London.
This had been due more to a desire to employ a more fashionable cook than concern for her servant’s welfare.
Not that the work in London was any less onerous, but Mrs. Watts preferred working for the first duchess’s two sons, “Her Ladyship’s boys” as she liked to call them.
Gabriel took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair to remove the feel of it.
He hadn’t said anything to Phoebe, who’d been disgusted enough by her own not so clean disguise, but he wasn’t fond of wearing this greasy, faded head covering.
He’d checked it a number of times for inhabitants and found none, but nevertheless, it made his head itch, and that always engendered suspicion.
“But I’m not surprised to find you here,” he said. “Slaving over a hot stove as usual. What have you done with Ellen? Isn’t she supposed to be helping you?”
Mrs. Watts wrinkled her snub nose. “That girl came over all faint a while back, so I gave her a sweet tea and had to send her up to her room to lie down for a bit. If I didn’t know better I’d say the foolish creature’s got herself in the family way.
She’s no more sense than a chicken, that girl.
You can bet she don’t know how a girl ends up like that.
And she’s far too pretty for her own good, even when she’s sweaty from workin’ with her head in the bread oven. ”
Gabriel laughed. Ellen was indeed pretty in a rather vacuous way, with wide brown eyes and the full lips he knew all too well that Ambrose liked.
And Ambrose’s own wife was very much out of action with only a short time to go until she provided him with the longed-for heir.
Hopefully. Of course, it could turn out to be a girl.
The fact that Ambrose still had his latest mistress here in London with him, a woman he’d been carrying on with well before his marriage to the unfortunate Isabel Huntsville, would make no difference.
Ambrose had always had an eye for a pretty girl from even before he’d gone off to Eton at thirteen.
Marriage had in no way curtailed his inclinations, and a willing servant girl with wool for brains would still be his ideal prey.