Мэри Бэлоу - Someone to Romance

“What do you know of Gabriel Rochford?” Alexander asked. “The missing earl.”

“Nothing,” Avery said after taking a drink and setting his cup back in its saucer. “Except that he is missing and that he shares an angelic first name with Thorne. But the world, I must believe, contains a fair smattering of other Gabriels.”

“How long has the earl been missing?” Alexander asked. “Do you know?”

“I do not,” Avery said. “Is the question relevant to anything?”

“Rochford told a story last evening,” Alexander said. “Jessica heard it. So did Elizabeth and a few other guests. Estelle was part of the group. So was young Peter. It was not a suitable story for such an audience and such an occasion. Both Elizabeth and I turned the conversation to other topics as soon as we could, but we could hardly interrupt him midsentence. Of course, if you had been there with your quizzing glass and your ducal stare, he would have been muzzled far sooner.”

“Dear me,” Avery muttered.

“He told a story of his cousin’s wild ways,” Alexander said, “culminating in what he hinted was the rape of a neighbor’s daughter and the murder of her brother. After which he fled to escape the hangman’s noose.”

“Who would not, given the opportunity?” Avery said. “And all this was recounted in my sister’s hearing? And in your sister’s? Perhaps there will now be more to my distaste for the man than his teeth and his waistcoats.”

“As head of the Westcott family,” Alexander said, “it concerns me that Jessica may be considering marriage to a man of . . . shall we say questionable good taste? Perhaps even spite, since the missing earl was not present to speak for himself. Of course, she is also a member of the Archer family, of which you are the head.”

“You are begging me to exert myself, I understand, while assuring me that you will exert yourself ,” Avery said. “How very tedious life becomes at times. Is it known how long ago the alleged rape and murder happened?”

“No,” Alexander said. “But it should be easy enough to find out. It should be possible also to discover how long Gabriel Thorne was in America before returning recently for a reason so vaguely explained that really it is no explanation at all.”

“You have been busy for a man who returned to London only a couple of days ago,” Avery said. He nodded to a waiter, who refilled his cup.

Alexander made a face at his own cup, with its cold coffee, and the waiter replaced it. “I probably have a foolishly suspicious mind,” he said. “That is what Wren told me last night anyway. She pointed out that Rochford is an extraordinarily handsome man—her words. She also added, however, that if he were applying for employment at her glassmaking works, she would reject him even before studying his credentials. Any man who smiles so much, she said, must be assumed to have a shallow, even devious, mind.”

“I must be careful not to smile overmuch in the presence of the Countess of Riverdale,” Avery said with a shudder.

Alexander laughed. “I cannot imagine,” he said, “that Wren would ever accuse you of having a shallow mind, Netherby. Or of smiling too much. She admires you greatly. But what of Thorne? If he is not making a play for Jessica too, I will eat my hat.”

“Not the gray beaver,” Avery said, looking pained again. “It sounds like a recipe for indigestion.”

“What do you know of him?” Alexander asked.

“Next to nothing,” Avery told him. “Little more, in fact, than I know of the missing earl. He has good taste in horses and curricles. He is of that rare breed of mortal that can produce exquisite music from a pianoforte without any formal training at all, or even any informal training, if Jessica is to be believed. He favors single-flower tributes to ladies he admires rather than bouquets so large it apparently takes two of my footmen to convey them to the drawing room. I believe, before you can demand an answer of me, that I must like him. Though being asked to express any sort of affection for someone outside my own family circle has a tendency to bore me.”

“Ah,” Alexander said. “But if Thorne has his way, Netherby, he will be a part of your inner family circle, will he not? And a Westcott by marriage.”

“But not yet,” Avery said softly. “Drink your coffee, Riverdale. You have already allowed one cup to develop a disgusting gray film.”

Alexander picked up his cup and drank. “There is one detail, I must confess,” he said, “that would appear to throw cold water on my suspicions. Rochford knew his cousin, the missing earl. Yet he showed no recognition of the man who admitted to having the same first name as the earl.”

“Ah,” Avery said. “But have we established that Rochford is a truthful man?”

Eleven

Lady Vickers had gladly accepted Gabriel’s offer to escort her to a garden party in Richmond that she wished to attend and to which he had also been invited.

“The house overlooks the river,” she explained to him in the carriage, “and the garden is glorious. Far more so than the interior of the house itself, which I always find surprisingly gloomy. One would think that whoever designed it would have thought to insist upon large windows facing the river, would one not? And that the occupants would not have chosen to cover what windows there are with gauzy curtains to preserve their privacy? Privacy from what, pray? The ducks? The hothouses alone are worth every mile of the tedious drive, however. You must not miss them, Gabriel. Or the rose arbor, which is built on three tiers. If you like rowing, there are several boats. And the food is always plentiful and delicious. The lobster patties are as good as any I have tasted anywhere.”

“You have persuaded me that I will enjoy myself,” he told her. “But I would be delighted to escort you, ma’am, even if the garden were a scrubby piece of faded grass abutting on a marsh, with only stale cake and weak tea for refreshments.”

“Oh, you shameless charmer,” she said, laughing as she slapped his arm.

He did not see much of her once they arrived. She introduced him to their hostess and a few other people, some of whom he had met before, and was then borne away by a couple of older ladies to join friends who had found seats in the shelter of a large oak tree down by the river.

“You will not wish to sit with a group of old ladies, Gabriel,” Lady Vickers informed him. “Stay here and enjoy yourself.”

He bowed to her and winked when the other two ladies had turned away.

Over the next half hour he was drawn into a few groups of fellow guests up on the terrace, most notably one that included a mother and her three young daughters, one of whom had her betrothed with her, a thin and chinless young man who looked as though his neckcloth had been tied too tightly. The other two simpered and giggled and blushed and had no conversation whatsoever beyond monosyllabic answers to any questions he posed them.

Gabriel found himself smiling at them in fond understanding while he conversed with their mother and the fiancé. He noticed that avuncular feeling coming over him again. Was he seriously considered husband material for girls who were only just beginning to leave their childhood behind? All upon the strength of an undisclosed American past and an unconfirmed fortune—and the fact that he was Sir Trevor Vickers’s godson?

Lady Estelle Lamarr, strolling past on the lawn below with her brother, must have assessed the situation at one glance. “Mr. Thorne,” she called, beckoning with the hand that was not holding a parasol over her head, “do come walking with us. We are going to look at the boats to decide if they are safe to ride in.”