An Improper Arrangement

Sir Jeremiah looked at his friend, as if they’d come to some sort of conclusion. She wasn’t certain if it was a happy or sad conclusion, but they had decided something.

“I’d only ever sailed from England.”

Another exchange of glances. A decision possibly reconsidered.

Really. How rude of the two of them. She hoped the duchess would interject herself, explain, but she seemed to be engrossed in counting out sugar cubes to place in her tea.

“I was born an Englishwoman, sir. My brother and I both, although he was older than I, and since I’m two and twenty, that was a long time ago. He was taken off by a fever before I was born. In any case, we left England to settle in Virginia, where there were no sad memories facing my parents at every turn. Mama was horribly upset, fearing I’d never return for a London Season, but Papa promised he’d never do any such thing.” She looked down at her hands, mostly because she didn’t want Gabriel Sinclair to see something dangerously revealing in her eyes. “Unfortunately, he perished during his return voyage to England to settle the last of his affairs.”

“A family of tragedies,” Gabriel said, nodding. “My condolences.”

Thea squirmed slightly in her seat. She’d probably offered more information than either man needed, but the way they both kept looking at her was unnerving, and she had a tendency to babble when nervous. Her mother remarked on it all the time. She really was a sad disappointment to her mother, at least most of the time. The poor woman would have slid into a faint the moment her daughter had revealed her advanced age.

The duchess, at last done stirring her tea, said, “Thea’s mother became a bosom chum while I visited my cousin the first time Basil and I went to America, and we renewed our friendship during this last trip. Although I’ve never had a daughter, I could feel her pain when she spoke about her late husband’s sworn promise, and the disappointment of her beloved oldest daughter not being given the Season her father and she had so desired. There was nothing else for it, of course. In all charity, I couldn’t help but offer to bring Thea here with me.”

“And, um, that’s my surprise? I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Gabriel said.

“Not quite, Sunny. Your surprise is that you are going to help me chaperone Miss Neville while we all, Basil included, go to London for the Little Season.”

“Oh, I rather think not,” Gabriel said, getting to his feet to bow to Thea, his handsome face now a thundercloud of repressed anger. “Devastated as I am to be unable to accompany you, Miss Neville, I’m afraid I already have plans to walk into the ocean and drown myself. Now, if you’ll excuse me…?”

“Sunny!” his aunt called after him, even as Sir Jeremiah Rigby clapped his hands on his thighs and laughed out loud.

But Gabriel Sinclair never hesitated, quitting the room without a backward glance, leaving Thea to think two things: possibly more was going on here than she believed she knew…and only a sweet old lady with silver hair or a complete idiot should ever dare to call the man Sonny.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_f8a17eb5-9fed-5e10-8bab-8b5717bc1897)

GABRIEL WAS WAITING for the duchess when she at last exited the duke’s suite of rooms. “Don’t run off, Your Grace,” he said, taking her arm before she even noticed his presence. “I believe you and I need to adjourn somewhere private. We have a few things to discuss, don’t we?”

The duchess smiled up at him. “Aren’t you at least going to ask how Basil is doing today?”

“You mean since Rigby and I arrived yesterday, now that the old boy’s another step closer to the grave?”

“We’re all mortal, Sunny,” she pointed out, wagging her finger at him. “Something to remember.”

“But nothing to fixate on, not if you plan to enjoy life while you’re here.”

The duchess sighed, nodding her head. “I’ll grant you that, yes. I think he’s becoming bored with his own doomsday predictions, or at least lonely. He missed me terribly you understand, and when I told him I’m off to London, not to return until after his birthday? Well, I’ve already got him half into the traveling coach. Once we’re in London, I’m counting on you to divert his mind from his dreary thoughts.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Why not, for goodness’ sake? Love him as I do, which is immensely, he’s become a sad drain on my usually cheerful nature these past few years, so much so that I must occasionally abandon him or else be sucked down into his pit of despair with him. Sucked down, Sunny.”

“Into the pit, yes. A fate not to be contemplated,” Gabriel agreed. He loved his aunt; he really did. But there were times…

The duchess sighed heavily. “I really didn’t know what else to do. He was once such fun, Sunny. Oh, how we laughed, how we loved! Did I ever tell you about the night we sneaked into one of the pyramids, spread out a blanket and—”

“Twice. You’ve told me twice. Once when I was young enough to believe it a marvelous adventure, and again when I blushed red as any beet and wanted to stop up my ears.”

“Oh,” the duchess said quietly, but then her happy nature returned. “We traveled everywhere, enjoying new foods, new sights, grand experiences—do you still have those copper singing bowls we brought you from Tibet?”

Gabriel rubbed at the back of his neck. His aunt knew him well enough to know why he’d been waiting for her and where he wanted to go, so she was taking the longest possible route to get there.

“I’m sure they’re stuffed in a cupboard somewhere, yes. One of my tutors confiscated them when I became a bit too enthusiastic about striking them with their wooden mallet. He informed me Big Ben isn’t nearly that loud or discordant.”

“They’re made to be melodious.”

“Then they shouldn’t come provided with a heavy wooden mallet.” He escorted his aunt into a small sitting room. “I’ll have to find them, won’t I? Rigby would probably enjoy giving them a knock or two.”

“You don’t give singing bowls a knock or two. They’re for meditation, centering oneself, for—Yes, why don’t you do that, give the boy the bowls. We probably didn’t bring you presents suitable for a young boy, did we?”

“The lemur was a nice touch,” Gabriel offered helpfully. “Although I don’t think I slept without a lit candle in my room until I was at least ten. But let’s discuss your most recent surprise, shall we?”

“Dorothea. Dreadful name. Makes her sound as if she’s already a sad old maid, destined to lead apes in hell.”

“At two and twenty, if she’s not on the shelf, she’s already pulled over the stool and is about to climb up there.”

“How cruel you men can be. Just don’t go prancing about Mayfair ringing a bell and telling everyone how long in the tooth she is, for pity’s sake, and we should be fine. She’s pretty enough. Thank you, dear,” the duchess said as Gabriel handed her a glass of sherry. The look in her eyes was the sort one more closely associates with that of a wounded puppy who’d thought its owner would enjoy deer guts on his front doorstep. “In any case, I suppose you want to speak about Dorothea.”

He’d rather poke sharp slivers beneath his fingernails. It had been months since he’d seriously thought about the Nevilles, both father and son. He’d already forgiven the son, daft boy that he’d been, but coming to grips with what the earl had done, the good men whose lives he put in jeopardy, hadn’t been so simple. Hearing the name Neville today proved that he still hadn’t quite conquered his anger or his unacceptable wish for some sort of revenge on the man.

And now his aunt had brought him a Neville, as a “surprise.” Why?

“Dorothea Neville. Yes, let’s chat about Miss Neville. Or are the name and quite possibly your return trip to Virginia both the result of mere coincidence?”

“Basil and I were forced to leave America, remember, with war being declared between our two countries. Why shouldn’t I have returned once we cried peace?”

It was becoming more difficult for Gabriel to maintain his pose of curious nonchalance, but if he pushed too hard, his aunt would probably stop talking about Miss Neville altogether and he’d have to go back to letting her ramble until she was once again ready to come to the point. “That peace was cried well before you set sail. And after I returned from my unpleasant months in captivity before Bonaparte abdicated.”

“Yes, dear, that terrible, terrible ordeal, those headaches you suffered so stoically. But we noticed—how could we not? You returned to us hardly the same sweet boy we remembered, and it broke our hearts. And it only became more unbearable when you finally confided in Basil and me about the earl and his son. I didn’t tell you, but I was in London and found myself attending a rout in the son’s honor, where his father beamed and strutted about with his pouter pigeon chest puffed up, as if the silly award had been strung around his neck. Basil would have been so upset to see him. Entirely too full of himself, the earl, and always has been. Have you met him?”

Gabriel had certainly seen the man on his few short visits to London since his return from the war, but he’d never approached him. What was he supposed to do—call him out for the rotter he was, challenge a much older man to a duel? If there was a revenge to be gotten, a justice to be served, it wouldn’t be on the dueling field.

“No,” he said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, “I’ve never had the pleasure.”

“Pleasure has very little to do with Henry Neville. He was always quite mean to Basil, ever since their school days together, always finding reasons to poke fun at him. Not that he’s kind to anyone who isn’t of some purpose to him, but poor Basil has always been, I suppose, such a ready target. I recall when Broxley dubbed him Sinclair the Slowtop when my poor dear misnamed one of the sights we saw in Athens. He corrected him quite meanly, and then put forth the question that, if Basil could not even remember where he’d been, why did he keep going places? Your uncle has never set himself up as an expert, you understand. He was simply happy to share his memories of some of the interesting sights we’d seen.”

“You’ve never told me about any of this.”

The duchess dismissed Gabriel’s comment with a wave of her hand. “And what good would that have done any of us, other than to upset you? The Sinclair the Slowtop humiliation came shortly after the fourth duke died, by the way, and Basil was already showing signs of becoming fairly fragile. Fifty people must have heard the Earl of Broxley be so condescending and hurtful, so you can only imagine how quickly his words spread through the ton. Sinclair the Slowtop, Sinclair the Slowtop. Nasty—men are no more than taller nasty boys. There followed no end of jabs from others of his ilk—for weeks, Sunny, as men are so easily amused—constantly coming up to Basil to ask if he knew where he was. And remember, this was far from the first time he’d laid your uncle bare to ridicule of some sort. I was furious. There was no need for the earl to say what he did, now was there?”

“None whatsoever. The man’s clearly a rotter,” Gabriel said, his mind busy elsewhere, attempting to add Neville and Neville together to come up to some sort of coherent total. Dearest Vivien wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the tin, but she was, after all, a woman, and women’s minds could be quite dangerous once applied to investigating revenges.

The duchess sat forward on her seat.

Gabriel did the same. Clearly, they were about to get cozy and, hopefully, down to business.

Her voice lowered, she looked to her right, to her left, before whispering, “I believe I’ve hit upon a way to make us both happy.”