Мэри Бэлоу - Someone to Romance

The cream of society obviously did not think so. The murmur this time was uglier. Equally ugly glances were being directed Gabriel’s way.

“He escaped,” Manley said, “before my cousin, the earl, could have him apprehended. A sure admission of guilt.”

“Perhaps we can take this discussion elsewhere,” the loud, overcheerful voice of Lady Farraday said. “Perhaps—”

Manley ignored her. So did everyone else.

“This man should be seized now,” he said, “before he can escape again. Gabriel Rochford is a dangerous man and worthy only of a dark prison cell until he can hang by the neck until he is dead.”

The murmurings were becoming a little louder and a little uglier. The situation was about to turn downright nasty. At any moment now, Gabriel thought, he was going to be tackled and brought down on the ballroom floor, his arms pinioned behind his back. Perhaps it was only social etiquette and the presence of ladies—several of whom looked just as outraged as their men, however—that had prevented its happening already.

“I find it a little strange, Manley,” Gabriel said, and the need to hear what he had to say outweighed the urge to prevent him from fleeing. Silence fell almost immediately. “I find it strange that you saw me shoot Mr. Orson Ginsberg, my friend , in the back. Of course, by your own admission you were some distance away and were perhaps mistaken about the identity of the murderer. You were the only witness, were you?”

“I was not,” Manley said. “My cousin was with me. Your cousin too. Mr. Philip Rochford.”

“Ah,” Gabriel said. “The late Philip Rochford, that would be.”

“He reported what he saw,” Manley said, “to a number of people, including the earl, his father, and representatives of the law. You made a grave mistake in coming back to England, Gabriel Rochford . If you believe your prospects will protect you—”

“I find it strange,” Gabriel said, cutting him off, “because I know of two other witnesses who are willing to swear, in a court of law if necessary, that I was nowhere near the scene of the murder at the time it was committed.”

“Oh yes?” Manley said. He was sneering now and looking about him to encourage his audience to sneer with him. “Produce them, Gabriel Rochford. ”

Gabriel felt someone step up behind him and tug lightly on his domino. Jessica looked back and released her hold of his arm in order to step to one side and draw Mary into the gap between them with one arm about her shoulders. The little bareheaded nun had removed her wimple as well as her mask. She looked steadily and reproachfully at Manley.

He recognized her instantly. So did his wife.

“It is Miss Beck,” she said.

“Be quiet, Marjorie,” Manley commanded, his voice harsh. “You are a long way from home, Miss Beck. Gabriel was always a great favorite with you, I recall. But you may wish to consider well before perjuring yourself in order to save him from the gallows.”

“I never have to consider for long before telling the truth, Mr. Rochford,” she said in her calm, deep voice. “Truth is the only thing to be told, at all times. Gabriel was at my cottage for several hours of the afternoon when poor Mr. Ginsberg died. He was helping me tend a wounded fawn one of the grooms had brought me. The groom remained too and remembers. I have a letter from him in safekeeping.”

It was currently locked inside a safe in Netherby’s study at Archer House.

“I have a firm alibi, you see,” Gabriel said. “You were mistaken, Manley. It was not I who murdered Orson.”

“Alibi!” Manley said scornfully. “It is easy to get your friends to say anything you wish, Gabriel. I demand that this man be arrested.”

The crowd no longer seemed so eager to pounce.

“Besides,” Manley cried, trying to reestablish his hold on them, “he is a ravisher as well as a murderer. I daresay he has no alibi for that .”

“Oh, I say,” someone said. “Remember there are ladies present, Rochford.”

“Even for that rape,” Manley said, repeating the word at least one of his fellow guests had found offensive, “he deserves to die.”

“And I have a letter,” Gabriel said, “written by the lady herself and witnessed by her father and her husband, exonerating me from that charge. You were mistaken again, Manley. It was someone else who ravished her.”

That letter too was in Netherby’s safe.

He waited for the renewed swell of sound around them to die down.

“She does name that someone else in her letter,” Gabriel added, his eyes fixed upon Manley.

Manley had turned even paler, if that was possible. His lips looked almost blue in contrast.

“You brought a fortune from America with you, Thorne,” Anthony Rochford blurted suddenly. “How much did you pay the strumpet? And her father and husband? How much did you pay Miss Beck? And the groom who wrote a letter—if he did write it? In my experience grooms do not write. Or read.” He looked triumphantly about him.

But his words fell flat. And Manley seemed lost for further words. His wife set a hand on his arm again, and again he shook it off.

“We are done here. For now,” he said, speaking with an awful dignity. “If no one among you is man enough to hold this man until the authorities can come to arrest him and haul him off to jail, where he belongs, then I will have to make those arrangements myself. Come, my dear. Come, Anthony.”

A path opened up for him, though he did have to lead his wife and son around Gabriel and Jessica and Mary in order to reach it. They left the ballroom unimpeded. Everyone else simply watched them go.

Gabriel looked down at Mary and smiled. And he looked over her head at Jessica and . . . saw two persons combined. One and indivisible. He saw Lady Jessica Thorne at her most haughty. He saw also Jessica, the lovely, warmhearted woman he suspected had become indispensable to him for the rest of his life.

“My felicitations, Lady Farraday.” It was the voice of Netherby, bored and aristocratic, not raised above the level of ordinary conversation by one iota but nevertheless commanding the attention of everyone in the ballroom. “I daresay your costume ball will go down in the annals of social history as one of the most memorable entertainments of the decade.”

And a small group of ladies began a round of applause, there were a few cries of Hear, hear , a man whistled piercingly, and Lady Farrady almost visibly let go of the conviction that her precious masquerade was a disaster. The floor was clearing, the orchestra was readying its instruments, but still there was a cluster of persons in the middle of the ballroom.

“I believe we are done here too,” Gabriel said to the two ladies beside him. “Are we ready to leave?”

“Yes,” Jessica said.

“In a minute,” Mary said, looking apologetically from one to the other of them. “I must first thank your grandmother and aunt, if I may, Jessica. They have been very kind to me. What lovely ladies they are.”

Gabriel smiled rather grimly at Jessica as Mary moved away, and she looked back—ah, with that wide, sunny smile that always rocked him back on his heels.

Lady Farraday’s guests had allowed Mr. Manley Rochford and his wife and son to leave without attempting to stop them. It was, of course, otherwise with Gabriel. It made perfect sense to Jessica.

Some wished merely to shake his hand and congratulate him, calling him my lord or Lyndale as they did so. Others wished to assure him that they did not believe for a single moment that he was guilty of what he had been accused of and were very glad that he had a solid alibi for both charges. A few were bold enough to ask him if he knew who was guilty. Was it Mr. Manley Rochford himself? No one asked that specific question, but all wondered. Or so it seemed to Jessica.