An Improper Arrangement

Good God, had they suddenly become coconspirators?

“I wasn’t aware I was unhappy,” he whispered back, holding up his hands as he ran a curious glance over his body. “Does it show?”

She sat back again, patting at her small mountain of silver curls. “Don’t attempt to fob me off with some notion that you aren’t as interested in revenge as I am, because it won’t fadge, Sunny. You or your friends, like that nice young man downstairs. You all had a dreadful time of it.”

“We might still have had a dreadful time of it if Myles had done what he was told to do. I’ve had enough time to realize that.” More than enough time, damn it all to hell. Enough time to face facts for what they are, and find sufficient room to shift some of the blame onto his own shoulders.

“Oh, piffle! That wet-behind-the-ears infant was never sent there to fight, as had been the case for you and your friends. He was there only because the war was as good as over—save for that ugliness at Waterloo—and then safely installed with the Russians, where the most egregious thing he could do would be not being able to hold his wine every night as he dined with the general. The moment he realized he could be in some danger, he ran like a rabbit back to the safety of the command, leaving you to fend for yourselves.”

“And all the troops, English and Russian, to be caught completely unprepared,” Gabriel added, beginning to relocate some of his old anger. “Go on.”

“Do bring me that shawl over there, Sunny, and drape it around my shoulders. I’m beginning to feel a chill.”

Again, Gabriel complied, probably with more haste than grace. His aunt did have a way of dragging things out until she was ready. He’d once been forced to travel a full hour of twisting verbal paths touching on a dozen topics before she got to the point of one of her stories (which was, sadly, “And then we went home.”).

She began this story with her first journey to America—lovely place, although not a patch on England—some of the sights they’d seen, including that insulting bell they call Liberty. She and Basil had stayed mostly to the coast, having heard dreadful things about the wild interior of the country (although it might have been jolly to see some of the Indians they’d heard so much about), beginning in Boston, making their way to New York—so many of their cities and towns borrowing names from us and then simply sticking the word new in front of them, as if that made them better or some such rot. Still, a lovely journey, peopled by some truly welcoming citizens, as they call themselves. Did he think that was in imitation of the French citoyen of their revolution?

“Aunt…?”

“Yes, Sunny?”

He’d made the fatal mistake, interrupting her train of thought. “Nothing. Carry on.”

“I believe I was doing that. You probably want me to talk about Virginia. That was our ultimate destination, my cousin’s humble home along the James River—so named in honor of our own James the First. There has to be no more than fifteen bedchambers, a paltry sum, but Basil and I did enjoy sitting outside of an evening, watching the river go by.”

Gabriel began counting to ten.

“And that’s where I was seated—I remember it most distinctly—when Mrs. Rutherford and her oldest daughter, Dorothea Neville, were first introduced to me. Still in the schoolroom, the child, and not very talkative. I didn’t pursue getting to know her. You know I’m not fond of cultivating children in any case, finding them singularly uninteresting and prone to be forced to recite insipid poems for their elders. But back to my visit.”

“Ah, progress.”

“Pardon me, dear?”

“She didn’t carry the same surname as her mother?” he amended quickly.

“How brilliant of you to pick up on that, Sunny. Although I must confess I didn’t pay the difference much mind until the evening Theodora and I—her mother’s name, also a unfortunate choice—had a chance for a lovely coze. Such a sad tale.”

“Miss Neville mentioned something about it over tea.”

“She did? Oh, yes, I remember. She talks much more now. How fortunate. Then I’ll make this brief.”

And we pause a moment to thank God and all his minions…

“I had to go back, of course, see them again, see the tall, gawky child now grown, hear more about this departing of England and sad death of dear, beloved Harry. Harry, Sunny. A common enough derivative of Henry. Of course, all a hum. Not that one could blame Theodora, poor soul, abandoned by her lover. I should have drummed up some sort of plausible explanation myself, if forced by circumstances. And at least her allowance still shows up every quarter, as her husband did arrange for that before he, ahem, died.”

“And you somehow managed to pry the truth from the woman?” Gabriel wasn’t sure he liked where this story was going.

“If you had been successful with your deception for so long, had found yourself a new husband, had borne him two children, were accepted in what passes for society in America—would you spill the soup to a near stranger?”

No, he wouldn’t. “So what you’re saying, Your Grace, is that you’ve deducted on your own that Miss Neville is…is a—”

“By-blow. Illegitimate love child. Sweet enough, but unfortunately conceived on the wrong side of the blanket. Oh, don’t sit there with your jaw gaping, Sunny. It happens all the time. I’ve seen the world, remember, and I know.”

She’d seen her version of the world; he’d give her that. “That’s an intriguing theory, um, speculation, I suppose. Are you quite certain?”

“I won’t ask you bring me a Bible so that I might swear on it, but yes, really. Or haven’t you noticed her rather unique height and coloring? And then there’s her eyebrows. Those will be exceedingly interesting to a certain party when she first goes into society.”

That put a quick halt to whatever Gabriel was going to say next—although he’d be damned if he knew what that would have been. “Her eyebrows?”

“You can’t say you haven’t noticed them. Lovely on her, quite singular, you’d agree? Strong but not oppressively so. Combined with her height and that raven’s wing black hair, she will certainly stand out among the many pathetically small milk-and-water blonde pusses giggling their way about the Little Season. Although I will have to do something about those freckles.”

“No!” Gabriel realized what he’d done and struggled to save himself. All the duchess needed to think was that he’d seen the freckles, admired them, and she’d be considering a spring wedding. Or would she, considering she’d just pronounced Miss Neville as illegitimate? Then again, the third duke had married his mother’s dresser. From lady’s maid to duchess. Stranger things had happened in the Sinclair family.

To be safe, Gabriel quickly clarified his objection. “That is, she’s a grown woman, Aunt, and it would appear you plan to use her—you and me both—in getting some of our own back on the earl. She’s not our protégé, Aunt. She’s our victim. Your victim. I don’t want any part of it, thank you, even as I know your intentions were good. I mean, the part that included me. Take your revenge if you want, but as of now, I’m no longer involved. I’m sorry.”

Oh, but he was tempted…

“Do strive to control your righteousness, Sunny, as I’m not impressed. Contrary to what you so obviously believe as you climb up on your lofty perch of perfection, the only reason Basil is considering a trip to London is to watch as we take the earl down a peg or two in his cocksure attitude.”

Gabriel felt the noose tightening. “You’ve already told him I’ve agreed to the plan, haven’t you?”

“He wouldn’t allow me to take on such a…such a project on my own, no.”

“And you really think this project of yours will be enough to make him stop thinking about his imminent death until he’s past his birthday?”

She pulled the shawl more closely around her shoulders, managing to look coquettish somehow. “I want my husband back the way he was, in all ways. Miss Neville is not the beginning and the end of my plans, Sunny. I don’t wish to put you to the blush, but I’m much too old to consider taking on a lover, yet I’m also not in my dotage. What with Basil constantly interrupting things to have me measure his pulse until I could no longer feel anything for him save frustration, I had nearly given up hope of being a wife in anything but name. You let me take care of Basil. I just need you to help me boost him out of his doldrums and get him back to business—in every way, if you take my meaning. I’ll take it from there.”

Since the floor didn’t conveniently open up so that he could drop out of sight, Gabriel asked, “And Miss Neville? What happens to her?”

The duchess blinked in confusion. “Why, nothing. You don’t really believe I’d announce her sad circumstances to all and sundry, do you? It’s why the Little Season is so much safer. She’ll be presented, capture someone’s eye—I’ll trust you to vet her suitors—marry fairly well with the dowry your uncle will give her, and that will be that. I only want the earl to see her, to know who she is, and worry himself sick that we also know. I want him to feel as uncomfortable as he made my poor Basil.”

“You’re forgetting something. She’ll recognize him, as well, by name. Harry Neville. Henry Neville? What happens then?”

The duchess sighed. “Yes, she is rather quick. I came to that realization myself. Unfortunately, the ship was halfway to England, dear Thea in tow, by the time that particular revelation struck me. It will have to remain our secret until we’re safely installed in Grosvenor Square and then, so there are no awkward scenes, you shall tell her.”

“Who shall tell her?”

“Well, you certainly don’t think I’m going to, do you? Otherwise, I will come off looking quite the horrid person, even scheming and conniving, and you wouldn’t do that to me. It has to be that you’re the one who discerned her resemblance to the earl and thought about the similarities of the surname, your sweet but silly aunt never realizing the thing as more than coincidence. Don’t you wonder why he didn’t pick another name when he was mounting Theodora as his mistress? Odd, that, even sloppy.”

Gabriel sat back in his chair, one elbow propped on the arm, his hand squeezing his lower jaw so that he wouldn’t speak until he managed to get himself back under control. He was to sit down Miss Neville and tell her she was a bastard? Wonderful. He’d rather have another half-dozen stuffed lemurs.

“Yes, odd,” he finally managed. “Even sloppy.”

“Yes, but then, some people don’t have the sense they were born with, especially in matters of seduction and such, if you but consider our own prince regent and that Mrs. Fitzherbert of his, and what a mess that might have caused. Why, a simple Smith, or Jones, and we wouldn’t be sitting here, would we, having this conversation.”

Gabriel looked into his empty glass. “I believe I need another drink.”

“Not too much, Sunny. Remember the third duke? Nearly drank himself into the grave. Here, give me a kiss,” she said as she rose, offering her powdery cheek. “I’m off to see Basil again. We’re still discussing a departure date to London. I think two weeks should be enough time, don’t you? Really, Thea isn’t that bad. America’s not precisely backward, but she does need some polish concerning the ways of our less seasoned London gentlemen, who can be rather—well, aggressive in their courtship may be too strong a word. You’ll handle that, won’t you, as I’ll be cudgeling my brain to think up things to occupy Basil’s mind, something other than his absurd notion that he’s about to shuffle off this mortal coil. Yes, of course you will.”