Claire Thornton - The Defiant Mistress

Gabriel saw that he was to sit almost opposite to Frances. He would be able to see her every move throughout the meal. She glanced at him, then looked quickly away. Her fingers fidgeted briefly with her closed fan, then her grip on the ivory sticks relaxed. She turned to smile at Roger Minshull who was sitting on her left. Minshull spoke to her and she replied in a light, untroubled tone. Gabriel saw that the ferret-faced secretary was already halfway to being besotted by his beautiful companion.

Frances’s composure grated on Gabriel’s temper. If she had any shame or conscience she would be begging him not to disclose her treacherous behaviour eight years ago. She must know it would take only one word from him to destroy her credibility with the Ambassador. For a few seconds Gabriel almost felt a grudging admiration for her obvious determination to brazen out the situation. There must be a backbone of steel concealed within her graceful feminine curves. Then his painfully acquired cynicism reasserted itself. In truth, it required no great courage for Frances to continue her masquerade. She was undoubtedly relying on his reluctance to reveal his youthful folly to the world. And she was right. He had no intention of providing any further entertainment for the embassy household. From now on he would treat her with the indifference she deserved.

‘It is a testament to the power of love,’ said the chaplain.

‘What?’ Gabriel’s head snapped around.

‘Mrs Beresford’s epic journey to rejoin her husband, my lord,’ the chaplain replied. ‘I have never seen two young people more truly matched. True love can overcome the greatest obstacles.’ He looked at Rachel Beresford with sentimental admiration. Gabriel followed the direction of the chaplain’s gaze.

Rachel noticed their attention was fixed upon her and blushed. ‘I could never have managed without Mrs Quenell’s help,’ she said. ‘I was so overset by the time I reached Bruges that I don’t know what I would have done if the innkeeper hadn’t taken me to the convent. After that Mrs Quenell took care of everything. I will never be able to repay her for what she has done for me.’

‘Nor I,’ Edward Beresford interjected. ‘I will always be in your debt, madam. It gives me nightmares, imagining what could have happened to my poor Rachel without your protection. And that of Mr Breydel as well, of course,’ he added. ‘I am sorry he was not able to attend this banquet.’

Gabriel hid his opinion beneath an impassive expression. The others might believe Frances’s story that she’d been a guest at the convent for a considerable time, but Gabriel knew better. She’d lied to him eight years ago, and it seemed she hadn’t lost her talent for telling plausible untruths. Frances had certainly been serving her own ends when she adopted the role of guardian angel to Rachel Beresford. No doubt she was between patrons and, just like Rachel, had taken temporary refuge in the convent. Now she was on the lookout for a new protector. The Ambassador must have told her he had a noble guest without mentioning Gabriel’s name. What a shock Frances must have had when she discovered the wealthy man she’d selected as her next victim was someone she’d duped already. Gabriel had no intention of playing her fool again.

Frances acknowledged Edward Beresford’s gratitude with a modest smile and a quiet word of thanks, but she continued her conversation with Minshull. She had changed her gown since that morning. The blue dress had been very becoming to her fair beauty, but the primrose silk taffeta revealed even more of her charms. The wide neckline showed off to perfection the graceful curve of her shoulders. It was trimmed all about with a broad lace collar more than six inches deep. A length of such fine, wide lace would have been expensive. Who was the man who had paid for the silk gown and costly lace she wore with such self-assurance? And why was she no longer with him?

‘Amazing coincidence, meeting Mrs Quenell again in Venice,’ the Ambassador remarked cheerfully.

‘What?’ Gabriel stared at the Ambassador. ‘You knew her before?’

‘Who? What?’ Sir Walter looked confused by Gabriel’s sharp question. ‘Not me!’ he exclaimed, his expression clearing. ‘I meant you, my lord.’ He laughed. ‘Must have been quite a surprise for both of you. Mrs Quenell was telling me.’

‘Telling you?’ Gabriel looked at Frances through narrowed eyes. She was even more brazen than he’d supposed. Perhaps it was time to call her bluff. ‘Indeed, yes. We were acquainted years ago,’ he said coldly. ‘But so long ago I confess I’ve forgotten the details. Perhaps you would be kind enough to remind me… Mrs Quenell.’

Her naturally fair skin grew even paler as he watched. He saw her swallow, then she looked directly at him. In that instant her eyes were the eyes of the girl he’d loved eight years ago—filled with hurt and confusion. Her unguarded blue gaze found an unexpected chink in his armour-plating of cold disdain. He looked away first, shaken by memories he’d tried so hard to destroy.

‘Of course. Your reunion this morning was cut short when you met one of your merchant acquaintances,’ said the Ambassador. ‘A very inopportune interruption.’

Gabriel realised the whole table had fallen silent. A quick sideways glance informed him that everyone was waiting more or less openly to hear about his previous friendship with Frances. He should have known his behaviour that morning would arouse curiosity.

‘Mrs Quenell,’ he challenged her, his voice deadly soft. ‘Your memory is obviously so much clearer than mine. Please. Remind me of our last meeting.’

The occasion when she’d laughed and consigned him to a ditch. He stared at her, daring her to admit her perfidious behaviour. As he watched, she summoned a smile to her lips that didn’t reach her eyes.

‘I fear I don’t remember our last meeting, my lord,’ she replied lightly. ‘But I do recall our first.’

‘Really? I made more impression on you at the beginning of our acquaintance than I did at the end? What a damning indictment of my address.’ He paused briefly. ‘But I believe I am harder to overlook now,’ he concluded, a diamond-hard edge to his voice.

‘You certainly appear grander than you did when serving behind the counter in the silk mercer’s,’ Frances snapped. ‘I vow, when I first saw you this morning decked out in velvet and lace, I scarcely recognised you.’

Further down the table Gabriel heard a gasp. Behind his back he was known as the Merchant Marquis, but very few men had the gall to call him that to his face.

Frances’s sharp response brought a feral smile to his lips—while at the same moment he felt the barest lessening of tension in his muscles. He remembered her occasional hot temper. So that at least had been real—even if everything else had been an act.

He recalled their first meeting in Sir Thomas Parfitt’s mercer’s shop. It was pure accident Gabriel had been present when Frances came in to make a purchase. Even as a young apprentice he had been employed in Parfitt’s warehouses, not in the shop on Cheapside. But as soon as he’d seen Frances he’d stepped forward to serve her—much to the amusement of Lady Parfitt, who kept the shop for her husband. And then he’d followed Frances home, just so he could arrange another, accidental meeting with her. God, what a young fool he’d been.

‘We both seem to have improved our condition in life,’ he said, his eyes on the wide fall of expensive lace about her shoulders.

‘You have certainly changed,’ she retorted. ‘Whether it is an improvement remains to be seen.’

The chaplain gasped. Someone lower down the table laughed and quickly converted it to a cough. A gleam of satisfaction suddenly appeared in Roger Minshull’s eyes. He moved so that he presented a subtle, but unmistakable shoulder to Gabriel and engaged Frances once more in conversation.