Fallen Angel (22 page)

“I have been at Sherington Close for the last week and a half,” he said once they were out of traffic. “After the debacle with my London servants, I thought it might be a good idea to check out conditions on the estate. My agent here in London was not satisfied with the information he was receiving from the bailiff.”

Looking down into Miss Jolliffe’s eyes, Gabriel almost said that it had not actually been financial matters that had taken him to Suffolk—they could have been postponed until spring. What had mattered was being sure that the servants would treat Miss Jolliffe with respect when he took her there as his wife and as their new mistress.

“And what did you discover?” she prompted, and he wondered uneasily how long he had been staring into her eyes without speaking, like some besotted mooncalf.

“Oh, I found the most engaging scoundrel, who proceeded to fleece me unmercif
u
lly,” he said lightly.

Miss Jolliffe looked suitably shocked. “Your bailiff is a crook?”

Gabriel laughed. “No, the bailiff is a rather stolid fellow and painfully honest. It is the vicar who is a shameless thief. In little more than a week, the Reverend Mr. Stephen Todd did his best to empty my purse. To begin with, he managed to coerce me into paying for a new roof for the vicarage and repairs on the church organ. But not limiting himself to ecclesiastical matters, he also talked me into building four new cottages and renovating eleven others for my tenants, and I think I have agreed to purchase any number of pieces of new farming equipment, although I am not sure he understands their purpose any better than I do.

“In addition, he has persuaded me to waive the rents for one year since my predecessor had previously raised them to unconscionable levels. And I have also provided pensions for the aged servants and annuities for all the Rainsford bastards that
li
tter the countryside.”

Gabriel’s last remark was not at all suitable for the ears of a delicately bred single lady, but Miss Jolliffe—being a superior sort of female—was in no way shocked by his revelations.

“I believe I should like to meet this Reverend Mr. Todd,” she said with a smile.

Gabriel glanced down into her gray-green eyes, now gazing so artlessly up at him, and he was thoroughly appalled. Why had it never occurred to him what a perfect match Miss Jolliffe would be for Mr. Todd—and what a perfect vicar’s wife she would make? He immediately regretted having ever mentioned the cursed fellow to her.

Unlike the fools who comprised most of the
ton,
the Reverend Mr. Todd was without doubt clear-sighted enough that he would not be misled for long by Miss Jolliffe’s unprepossessing face and form. A brief acquaintance would be enough for him to recognize her sterling qualities, and then what chance would Gabriel have?

Not only was the vicar handsome and charming, intelligent and witty, invariably good-natured and even-tempered, but beneath the light and seemingly carefree exterior, Stephen was the most devout, the most truly
good
man Gabriel had ever known.

Given the choice between such a saint and a short-tempered, ruthless man like Gabriel, it was clear whom Miss Jolliffe would choose to wed.

To be sure, Gabriel was an earl, and the vicar, although connected to all the best families, was not himself a peer. Unfortunately, Miss Jolliffe did not seem to be at all impressed with nor the slightest bit awed by the members of the peerage with whom she had come into contact, so he doubted a mere title would influence her appreciably in his own favor.

After a moment’s additional reflection, however, Gabriel realized he was worrying for naught. The Reverend Mr. Stephen Todd was not going to meet Miss Jolliffe until she was the Countess of Sherington—and once they were wed, Gabriel would see to it that she was not left alone in the company of charming rascals. And in the meantime, it would be wise to change the subject and in the future do his best to avoid all mention of the vicar.

“It appears the only thing the late earl ever did that met with the approval of his neighbors and tenants was to fall off his horse and break his neck.” Gabriel proceeded to describe his predecessor’s transgressions and the resulting wretched condition of the estate in great detail, and Miss Jolliffe asked quite intelligent questions, proving her expertise went far beyond the sheep and wool industry.

“I suppose it comes naturally from being raised in the country,” she explained when he questioned her broad knowledge of agriculture.

Gabriel was silent for a long time, his teeth clenched, his hands gripping the reins too tightly. Finally he managed to speak. “I, on the other hand, was apparently raised in a small room on the top floor of the west wing of Sherington Close.”

Miss Jolliffe’s eyes asked him a hundred questions, but she did not say a word, waiting for him to tell her as much or as little as he wished her to know.

He found himself wanting her to know everything.

“I do not remember ever being in any other room in that mansion, nor do I have any memory of the grounds around the house or the village nearby. My only memories are of being in that one room, looking out that one window.”

He told her all that he remembered about his mother and all that he had learned about his mother’s mother, Mrs. Everdon, which was very little. His maternal grandmother lived in London—in Marylebone—and the vicar received money for the poor of the parish from her every year on the anniversary of her daughter’s death.

But more important, Gabriel told Miss Jolliffe what he could not remember and what he had not been able to learn. As he talked, he felt the ghosts one by one release their hold on him and vanish back into the ether.

Finishing his account, he reined in the horses, reached in the pocket of his waistcoat, and pulled out the miniature. Handing it to Miss Jolliffe, he said simply, “My mother.”

“She is quite pretty, and her eyes are kind.”

“Or so the artist painted her. I have no way of knowing what she was really like. There are only a few servants left who remember her, and although they were quite forthcoming, what they were able to tell me was rather vague, and their descriptions of her character were too conflicting for me to trust any of them.”

“Doubtless your grandmother will be able to tell you more when you speak to her.”

“I have no intention of seeing her,” Gabriel said flatly, flicking the reins and sending the horses along the path again at a brisk trot.

“But if she lives here in London, surely it would not be too much trouble?” Miss Jolliffe began, but Gabriel cut her off.

“I despise all my relatives—every last one of them—and have no desire to add to their number. My grandmother has ignored me for years, and I see no need to bring myself to her attention. More than likely, as soon as I acknowledge the connection, she will jump at the chance to batten on my sleeve and expect me to pay her debts the way dear Cousin Phillip does. No, as far as I am concerned, the past has no hold on me.”

“But, on the other hand,” Miss Jolliffe pointed out in her usual calm and reasonable voice, “when one stops and considers it, you have never actually met any of your relatives, have you? Other than your mother, of course, and that was years ago.”

Gabriel was momentarily stunned by her reply, but then he realized she was quite correct. None of the thoroughly obnoxious members of the Rainsford family were related to him in the slightest degree—except, of course, in the eyes of the law.

He had, in his entire life, never actually seen or spoken with a person related to him by blood except his mother.

“Why should you assume your grandmother is like the Rainsfords?” Miss Jolliffe asked politely but persistently.

But Gabriel did not need any more urging. Even before she finished pointing out the obvious—that since he did not resemble the Rainsfords in any way there was no reason to assume that his grandmother would either—he was turning the horses’ heads north, toward Marylebone.

“Very well, since you are so keen on it, we shall go see her, but I warn you, if she makes any attempt to loosen my purse strings, we shall walk out the door with no ceremony, is that quite clear?”

“We?” Miss Jolliffe asked. “Surely you do not wish an outsider to be present at your first meeting?”

“Developing cold feet, are you? This is all your idea, so of course you are going to accompany me. That way if things fall out the way I fully expect them to, I shall have you right at hand, ready to accept the blame.”

“Oh,” she said rather faintly.

“And perhaps when Mrs. Everdon does not turn out to be the sweet, loving grandmother of your imagination—which I suspect has been colored by memories of your own grandmother—then perhaps, Miss Jolliffe, you will learn not to give unasked-for advice.”

“Perhaps,” she said, smiling up at him in a way that made it very hard for him to stay annoyed with her.

Gabriel drove right by his grandmother’s house the first time, not noticing the narrow green building squeezed in between two wider buildings. “An auspicious beginning,” he said after backtracking and finally finding the correct number.

Descending from the carriage, he helped Miss Jolliffe alight, then signaled a street urchin and for a silver coin hired the lad to lead the horses back and forth on the street to keep them from becoming chilled.

He would never admit it to Miss Jolliffe, but a part of him could not keep from wondering what he would find behind the yellow door. The more sane part of him wanted to abandon this foolish venture forthwith.

Lifting the knocker, he let it drop a single time. Perhaps, if he was lucky, his grandmother would not be home, and he could postpone this confrontation
...

As much as it pained him to acknowledge it, even to himself, without Miss Jolliffe’s support he would not have had the courage to face the unknown. Given the slightest excuse, he, who had faced razor-sharp swords and loaded guns without a qualm, was ready to turn tail and run like an abject coward.

But Miss Jolliffe was standing beside him, all eagerness to meet this unknown grandmother of his.

If the old lady was a social-climbing mushroom or a conniving schemer, he could handle that.

But suppose his only living relative—at least the only one that he knew of—was not completely without virtue? What if she made him feel he had some sort of obligation toward her?

That was what he could not face ... at least not alone.

Footsteps could be heard, and slowly the door was opened to reveal an old woman wearing such an odd assortment of clothes, one on top of the other, that she looked like a ragpicker. “What do you want?” she said in a querulous voice.

“We wish to speak to Mrs. Everdon,” Gabriel said, praying this old crone would not turn out to be his grandmother.

“Then come in and shut the door before you let in all the cold air.” Muttering to herself, the frightful old woman shuffled down the narrow hallway toward the back of the house, then raising her voice, she added, “You can wait in the sitting room while I fetch her.”

Gabriel looked at Miss Jolliffe without saying a word, but she could obviously tell what he was thinking, because she said with a smile in her voice, “It is still a bit too early to turn tail and run.”

Before he could suggest that they reconsider this whole thing, she entered the house, and he was obliged to follow, albeit reluctantly.

Inside was only moderately warmer than outside. Two doors led off the hallway, the one at back through which the servant had vanished, and the one at the front, which apparently led to the sitting room.

Opening it, Gabriel found a small room which though sparsely furnished, showed signs of frequent use—two chairs were pulled up close to the fire, which smoldered sullenly.

Even he could see the signs of poverty—the broken springs poking up from the cushion of the settee, the chair leg mended inexpertly with wire, the holes worn through the carpet, the frayed edges of the curtains over the front window.

“What odds, Miss Jolliffe,” he murmured, “that the prodigal grandson and his overflowing purse will be welcomed with open arms?”

Behind him the door opened, and his mother’s voice said, “You wished to see me?”

For a moment Gabriel was frozen in place, unable to move a muscle. Then with great effort he turned, fully expecting to see his mother’s familiar face.

But the woman in the doorway was far too old and wrinkled to be his mother. And his mother had been in her grave for more than a quarter of a century.

This, then, must be his grandmother. She was white
-
haired and shrunken, her face ravaged by time, but her eyes were still bright with intelligence. Considering the condition of the fire, it was not difficult to understand why she was dressed in the same extravagant number of clothes as the maid had been.

“May I ask your name, sir?” she said with all the dignity of a duchess. Then she lost her composure completely—her eyes widened, her face turned white, and her voice trembled when she said, “Gabriel! Is it really you? Or am I only dreaming again?”

Approaching him, she touched his arm, as if to reassure herself that she was awake. “Oh, my dear boy, welcome home!”

Now there were tears filling her eyes, and they spilled over and ran down her faded cheeks.

Feminine wiles, Gabriel told himself. Very well done, to be sure, but nothing more than an attempt to manipulate him. Unfortunately, she had betrayed herself by recognizing him. Doubtless she had been spying on him ever since he’d returned to England, wondering how she might contrive an introduction.

He shot Miss Jolliffe a look of censure, but her expression remained bland.

“Oh, dear,” the old lady said, producing a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiping her eyes, “my wits have surely gone begging. I have not even asked you to sit down.”

She indicated the settee, and Gabriel offered Miss Jolliffe the cushion that was intact, taking for himself the one with the broken spring, which turned out to be every bit as uncomfortable as it looked.