Diane Gaston - A Regency Gentleman's Passion

The three men circled her, doffing their hats and bowing, their greetings too exuberant, too ungentlemanly. She tried to push past them, but they blocked her path. She stiffened and tried again.

Three drunk men in red coats? It was like Badajoz.

Gabe sensed her panic as if he were inside her skin. He grabbed his shako and hurried out of the parlour, crossing the hall to the front door. As he opened it the three men were right there, about to step inside. Through them Gabe saw Emmaline rushing away.

Hanson put an arm around Gabe’s shoulder. “Deane, my good friend. You just missed the most delectable creature. In fact, you might be able to catch up to her if you hurry.” Contrary to his words, though, he pushed Gabe inside with them.

“She was a sight for sore eyes, that is to be sure,” agreed Irishman. “A pity Webberly scared her off. Never did know how to approach a lady.”

Webberly shoved him. “What lady would be walking out of Stephen’s alone?” He laughed. “Shall we wager on whose room she was visiting?”

Gabe clenched a fist. “I saw the three of you through the window. You frightened her.”

Hanson guffawed. “And you were rushing to her rescue? Great strategy, Deane! No better way to get a woman into bed than to come to her rescue.”

Irishman staggered ahead. “I’ve a bottle in my room if you’ve a mind to wet your whistle before dinner is served.”

“Come with us,” Hanson said to Gabe.

“No, I have an errand.” He drew back.

“Come to us when you are done.” Irishman gestured for Hanson and Webberly to hurry. “We’ll save you a drink.”

“Four-to-one odds Deane is going after that fancy piece,” Webberly cried.

The others laughed, but Gabe was already across the threshold. Once outside he ran out to Bond Street and managed to catch sight of Emmaline in the distance, walking alone.

He followed her, as he had that first day he’d glimpsed her in Brussels. Irishman, Hanson and Webberly were harmless enough, but that did not mean there were no other men out there who could pose a danger to her.

He stayed close enough to keep her in sight, all the while cursing himself for involving himself with her again, for even caring about her safety when she so obviously cared only for what assistance he could render her. As soon as she was safely back to her hotel, he’d wash his hands of her.

“It is none of my affair!” he said aloud, receiving a startled glance from a gentleman passing by.

Walking back to her hotel, Emmaline still trembled inside. The three officers had frightened her badly, bringing back the terror of Badajoz, but she’d collected her wits in time. Straightening to her full height, she had ordered them to leave her alone. They immediately backed off, apologising with exaggerated politeness. She was glad she’d not panicked and run away. Inside she still felt the fear, but she’d learned that, even when afraid, it was best to demand what she wanted.

She had not hidden her fears for Claude from Gabriel, however. She’d even mentioned the guillotine to him. She well knew that the British hanged men for murder, but her imagination kept showing Claude ascending steps to a guillotine. She again could hear the sound of the blade being raised, the excited rumblings of the crowd, the blade whizzing in its descent and the indescribable sound of it doing its work. It was as if she were still a girl standing in the Place de la Revolution holding her mother’s hand.

She forced herself to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, making her way to her hotel on Cork Street. It was not a far walk from Gabriel.

Gabriel.

How she had missed him. A part of her had wanted to weep for the joy of gazing upon him again, hearing his voice, inhaling his essence. The pain of sending him away had settled into a dull, enduring ache, but now the wound had reopened and bled freely again.

He was still so angry with her.

She could not blame him. He’d offered her his name and his protection and she’d sent him away, knowing that if she chose him her son would be lost to her for ever and she would never have a chance to help Claude find a way to happiness and peace.

It would be impossible to make Gabriel understand. It was not him she had rejected so cruelly. She simply could not turn away from her son, not when it was her fault Claude was so vengeful.

She should have defied her husband all those years ago, run away with Claude so her husband could not take him away from her. She’d been cowardly.

C’est vrai, she would never have met Gabriel, then. She would never have known those brief weeks of bliss with him. She would never have hurt him so acutely, either. Now she had wounded him all over again by coming to see him and asking for his help.

Her head was reeling. How was she to find Claude on her own? No one in England would help her, not with her French accent and story of a son who planned to kill an Englishman. Non, she would be reported to the English gendarmerie; perhaps she and Claude both would climb up to the scaffold.

She needed Gabriel. Needed him. Gabriel had found Claude on a battlefield littered with thousands of dead and dying men; he would know how to find him in England. Gabriel would protect her, as well, keep her safe from Edwin Tranville, who still frightened her as much as he had the day he’d tried to rape her and kill Claude, the day he’d laughed when the other men killed her husband. Emmaline should have killed Edwin Tranville herself that day. Gabriel had stopped her.

Gabriel.

Did all her thoughts return to him? When she had risen from her chair in the parlour she thought her heart might stop at the sight of him. She’d forgotten how grand he was, how formidable, a man who could do anything, even come through a battle unscathed to return her son to her.

And here she was, asking him to do it again, to find Claude against nearly impossible odds, to again snatch him from the jaws of death. She had no doubt that Gabriel could do it.

If he would agree.

Emmaline entered her hotel and told the hall servant to send her dinner to her room. She’d procured the most inexpensive room available, trying to conserve her funds so that she could pay Gabriel all she possessed to help her find Claude. Instead he’d been insulted by her offer of money.

Emmaline climbed three sets of stairs to her room and immediately took off her bonnet and gloves. She undid the buttons of the blue spencer she’d sewn to match her blue muslin dress. She was still French enough to take pride in her appearance.

When Claude had been recuperating, he’d wanted to learn English. She’d had plenty of time to sew while drilling him in English words and phrases.

If she’d only known why he wanted to speak the language.

She had sewn clothes for him, because he had outgrown his old ones, and next for herself, using as inspiration the gowns of the most fashionable English ladies who came into the lace shop. She’d been glad to see her clothes were not out of place in London.

Had Gabriel admired her appearance? She wished for his admiration of her ensemble as strongly as she detested the attention it had brought from the three drunken soldiers.

She lay upon the bed and stared at the ceiling, but her mind’s eye saw only Gabriel: his dark unruly hair; his chocolate brown eyes; the expressive mouth that had once pressed against her own lips.

She groaned.

She ached for him. Seeing Gabriel this day made her yearn for those glorious nights when he shared her bed. She’d been happy with him. Even with Claude in the army and Napoleon on the march again, those days with Gabriel had been the happiest she had ever known and she’d missed him every day thereafter. She pulled out the ring she still wore on a chain under her dress. This reminder of him rested always against her heart and kept him near to her, even after two years’ absence.