Chapter Five #2
His father studied him for a long moment. “And Miss Montfort?”
Gabriel looked down at the papers. “Miss Montfort is not the source of the disorder.”
“No.” The single word held far too much satisfaction.
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “Do not sound pleased.”
“I endeavored to sound grave,” Father said.
“You failed.”
His father smiled. “What will you do?”
“What can be done.”
“That is not always the same thing.”
“It is in law.”
“Is it?”
Gabriel refused to answer that. Instead, he drew a clean sheet of paper toward him.
“I will write to Lord Montague requesting additional time. I will review the remaining deeds once more. I will settle what accounts I can, delay what may be delayed, and give Lady Montague my advice regarding a reduced establishment.”
“And then?”
Gabriel’s gaze moved, despite himself, to the notebook.
Recommend alternate solicitor.
His father followed the look. He did not reach for the notebook. He did not need to.
“Ah,” he said.
“There is nothing improper in withdrawing from an account that cannot pay and will not be governed by solid advice.”
“No.”
“Then do not look at me as though I have suggested widows should be tossed into the street.”
“I was thinking nothing of the kind.”
Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “You were thinking something.”
“I was thinking,” his father said, rising slowly, “that human beings make a poor fit for tidy categories.”
“You have said that before.”
“And you have not yet listened.”
Gabriel dipped his quill into the ink. “If you have come only to dispense riddles, I have work to do.”
“So I see.” His father moved to the door, then paused. “Gabriel.”
He looked up.
“Do not mistake Miss Montfort’s smile for frivolity.”
Gabriel said nothing.
His father opened the door. “And do not mistake your own restraint for wisdom merely because it is uncomfortable.”
The door shut behind him.
Gabriel remained motionless. The office smelled of ink, paper, and the faint beeswax his mother used to rub into the old desk when she thought no one watched.
Absurd that he should remember the scent now.
He had been a boy when she died, old enough to understand a grave and young enough to be bewildered that the world continued to require things of him.
His father had wandered through those first months like a man searching for a room that no longer existed.
Gabriel had answered letters because no one else did.
He had learned ledgers because figures held still.
He had learned rules because rules did not leave you.
If he had become severe, it was because severity had saved what tenderness could not.
He shook his head. There was no use contemplating the past. His current obligations were all that mattered. And at present, he was obliged to write a letter to Lord Algernon Montfort.
He pressed his quill to the paper with more force than it deserved.
My lord,
I write on behalf of Lady Montague regarding your recent communication concerning the London town house…
He chose every word with care. Respectful, firm, precise.
He did not plead. He did not accuse. He noted Lady Montague’s long occupation of the house, the shortness of the notice, the practical difficulty of removing a widow and unmarried daughter with so little warning.
He requested, on grounds of decency and familial obligation, an extension of possession for no fewer than six weeks.
Six weeks was nothing.
Six weeks was everything.
He sanded the letter, folded it, sealed it, and gave it to the clerk with instructions to send it by the swiftest hand available to Lord Montague’s current address.
Then he returned to the papers.
By the time he rose to call at the Montfort house again, his neck ached, his temper had frayed, and his careful piles had multiplied like rabbits.
The Montfort foyer greeted Gabriel with every sign of a household where order had never been introduced, much less encouraged to stay.
A footman opened the door with a bandage around one finger and a haunted look that suggested Gabriel did not want to know what had caused the injury.
Somewhere above, a woman was singing scales with great passion and little accuracy.
Freddie came skidding across the floor at full speed, failed to stop, and collided with Gabriel’s boot.
“Good afternoon,” Gabriel said to the dog.
Freddie sneezed.
He would need to wash his boot.
Jenkins appeared from the direction of the salon. “Mr. Ashby.”
“Jenkins.”
“Miss Montfort is not at home.”
Gabriel had inferred as much. She had said she must go, and a woman with Miss Montfort’s expression, when she said such things, did not linger.
“Lady Montague?”
“In the salon, sir.”
That answer contained a world of warning.
“I require the deed box from the small cabinet in the study,” Gabriel said. “Miss Montfort mentioned it this morning.”
Jenkins’s relief was visible. “Yes, sir. This way.”
Gabriel followed him to the study and found, to his irritation, that the room looked emptier without Miss Montfort in it.
Nothing had changed. The papers remained on the desk, the chair stood where it had been, the globe waited in its corner, and the portrait of the late viscount still watched over the room with its laughing mouth.
The remaining papers had been arranged into a neat pile, a final, quiet attempt at order in a house already surrendering to departure.
Miss Montfort had arranged them, obviously.
Jenkins retrieved the deed box and set it on the desk. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No. Thank you.”
The butler hesitated.
Gabriel looked up.
Jenkins, whose steady bearing suggested long practice at maintaining order while the household collapsed around him, cleared his throat. “If there is anything to be done, sir…”
Gabriel went still. The words were simple, respectful, and almost bland, but he heard everything Jenkins had left unsaid.
If there was anything to be done, it was to be done for Miss Montfort, the young lady who had evidently earned the loyalty of every sane person in the house by standing between them and the storm.
“I am looking into it,” Gabriel said.
Jenkins nodded once, then withdrew.
Gabriel opened the deed box.
No miracle waited inside.
There were leases, old receipts, a copy of the settlement, correspondence regarding Brambleberry Court, and three hairpins that had no earthly business being there.
He read every document. Checked every seal.
Compared dates. Followed one faint hope regarding a small parcel of land until it became clear the income had been sold years ago to pay a debt Lady Viva had likely forgotten.
Nothing.
Less than nothing, because every avenue closed made Miss Montfort’s road narrower.
At last Gabriel sat back and looked toward the portrait of the late viscount. “You might have done better by them,” he muttered.
The painted Lord Montague smiled down, handsome and useless.
From the salon came Lady Viva’s voice. “Mr. Ashby, darling, are you hiding in there?”
Gabriel closed his eyes briefly. Then he stood and went to the door.
Lady Viva appeared in the hall wearing rose-colored silk, three golden bracelets, and an expression of delighted accusation. Why she had decided to change her clothing midday was a mystery he did not care to solve.
“You are hiding,” she said.
“I am reviewing documents.”
“Yes, darling. That is what I said.”
Behind her stood a gentleman of uncertain age, elaborate dress, and absolute self-regard.
He wore a coat of deep purple velvet, a waistcoat embroidered with silver vines, and a sapphire pin large enough to suggest either immense wealth or a complete indifference to vulgarity.
His dark curls had been arranged with precise intention, and his expression declared that he had never entered a room without expecting an audience.
“May I introduce Count Bellarosa,” Lady Viva said. “Or Bellarose. Or Bellarosi. He has repeated it many times, but always with so much feeling that I quite lost the consonants.”
The count swept into a bow so deep it bordered on choreography. “Bellarosa, madam. Of the ancient Bellarosas of Naples, Palermo, and, occasionally, Vienna.”
“Vienna?” Gabriel asked, eyeing the man carefully.
“Occasionally,” the count said grandly.
Lady Viva clasped her hands. “Isn’t he marvelous?”
“He is certainly declarative,” Gabriel replied.
The count touched the sapphire pin at his cravat. “My bloodline has advised kings, comforted queens, and suffered betrayal in six languages.”
“I see,” Gabriel intoned.
Lady Viva beamed. “Such confidence, sweetie. It practically requires its own sitting room.”
Gabriel looked from Lady Viva to the alleged count. “Has Miss Montfort met him?”
“Not yet,” Lady Viva said. “Poppy has such a suspicious little way of asking whether people are who they say they are.”
“A useful habit,” Gabriel replied.
“An oppressive one, darling.”
The count lifted his chin. “Madam, I welcome suspicion. Suspicion is but admiration in a veil.”
Gabriel had no immediate answer to that.
Lady Viva leaned closer and lowered her voice to a whisper that carried admirably. “He may not be a count.”
Gabriel cleared his throat. “I had begun to wonder.”
“Does that matter?” she asked, waving a hand in the air.
“It generally matters to the title,” Gabriel told her.
The count smiled magnificently, clearly undisturbed by titles, facts, legal recognition, or any other small local custom that failed to appreciate his grandeur.
“Poppy will know,” Lady Viva said with a sigh. “Poppy always knows whether people are who they say they are.”
“I imagine Miss Montfort knows many things,” Gabriel replied.
“Too many things, sweetie.” For the first time, something like sadness crossed Lady Viva’s face. “Far too many.”
Then, clearly horrified by her own sincerity, she turned to the count with an animated smile. “Come, Bello-something. We must see whether Lady Stone has woken from her nap.”