Gabriel: Lord of Regrets (13 page)

Gabriel set down his teacup and wondered silently what about barmaids and racing home would necessitate a change of subject.

“I was,” he said. “Rustic doesn’t have to mean primitive, and even the Romans figured out how to get hot water most anywhere they pleased. Can you do it?”

“I thought about it last night, after you left me, and yes, there are two fairly easy options.”

He was still describing the merits of each, his hands sketching in the air, when Gabriel ushered him into the library. Gabriel left the final decision to Aaron, but put in his vote for the simpler and thus more quickly constructed option, which would locate the bathing chamber on the first floor in a little-used guest parlor above the kitchens.

An hour later, Aaron was pacing before the hearth, while Gabriel lay full length on his favorite sofa, the estate book propped on his chest.

“What about this?” Gabriel ran a finger down the outside margin of a page. “Twenty damned cows went swimming at once and got stuck in the pond mud?”

“What about it? We’d had rain, and the banks were soft.”

“Was it beastly hot?”

“Not particularly.”

“Did something spook them into the pond, or were our cows turning to the fashionable pastime of pond bathing because Lyme Regis no longer appeals?”

Aaron paused in his pacing. “I doubt they were spooked. That pasture lies close to the Hattery’s cottage, and the cows would be accustomed to the comings and goings.”

“Were the cows all preparing to go courting, such that a yearly bath was in order?”

“Hardly.” Aaron took off on another circuit of the library.

Gabriel considered building up the fire yet again, and discarded the notion because his back wasn’t even twinging, despite the weather. “We’ll attribute it to a sudden penchant for fastidiousness among socially aspiring bovines. What about your broken drain on the north pond?”

“Drains break, especially after large storms.”

“Yes, they do, though two months earlier, you recorded a sizable expense for replacing drains. Was this one of them?”

“It was.” Aaron’s scowl was a copy of their late father’s. “I suppose it could have been faulty or improperly installed.”

“Fine.” Gabriel flipped a page. “Passing incompetence, though how one improperly installs a quarter-ton grate over an open ditch is a mystery.”

Aaron shoved his brother’s boots aside and sat. “What are you getting at?”

Gabriel set the book on a hassock and struggled to a sitting position. “At the risk of finding your fist in my face, I can tell you I worked a very badly neglected estate over near the South Downs—”

“You were less than a day’s ride away?” Aaron shot back to his feet. “The whole bloody time, Gabriel?”

“Not the whole time,” Gabriel replied, keeping his seat, because it was the warmer—and safer—location. “Most of it. In any case, the place hadn’t had a decent steward for years, or any resident owner. Every roof was sagging, every field was tired, every beast was inbred save for the market sow.”

“So it was easy to see what was needed.” Aaron closed the ledger and put it on the mantel.

“At first. Though in a place that had suffered a quarter-century of neglect, Aaron, we didn’t have the kinds of mishaps and bad luck you did in two years at Hesketh.”

“You didn’t have the kind of acreage we have here, either. If you record the mishaps and bad luck of a very large patch of ground, then you get a very large list of mishaps.”

“Perhaps.” Gabriel rose as well, because his brother was becoming defensive, and that was not the purpose of the exercise. “When things did start to go seriously wrong—equipment breaking dangerously, a starving mongrel turning up in the chicken yard, and so forth—it wasn’t bad luck.”

“Sabotage?”

“You always were a bright lad.”

“You think somebody’s trying to make my estate management look bad? Gabriel, is it possible you’ve grown excessively suspicious?”

“It is.” Gabriel paced to the window, where rain and something colder slapped against the panes. “It’s even likely, but then I started hearing about your duels, baby Brother, and I wondered if some ill luck might not have been planned for you as well.”

“The duels… well.” Aaron scrubbed a hand over his face. “They were nothing, really.”

“So there won’t be any more?” Gabriel ambled across the room to stand near his brother, the temperature being considerably more comfortable near the fire.

“There will not.” Aaron said it so fervently, Gabriel had to believe him. He studied his brother’s profile as they stood side by side, then settled a hand on Aaron’s shoulder.

“Good.”

Aaron looked over at him, a cautious, assessing glance, though Gabriel said no more. His brother was a grown man, and matters of honor were private.

Aaron moved away, out from under Gabriel’s hand. “Tell me about your last two years, sir, and don’t think I’m pleased to learn you were lurking right in my backyard the whole time.”

Gabriel heard the sound of Aaron taking the stopper out of the decanter—before noon, for God’s sake.

“I’ll have a tot myself,” he said. “It’s a long and thirsty tale.”

But for reasons Gabriel did not examine too closely, it was not going to be a tale that disclosed his previous acquaintance with Polonaise Hunt. Time enough for that later, if he survived the moral beating Aaron was going to deliver before the first installment of the story was reported.

“Are you done with me, then?” Marjorie folded up a pale blue riding habit with cream trim and sank into a chair.

“I am, for now,” Polly replied. “Is that habit comfortable?”

“It is. It’s at least three years old, and I’ve hunted in it many times.”

“I’m surprised your mother allowed that.” Polly started putting away the other wardrobe possibilities, wondering why she’d bothered considering them. Lord Aaron’s eye had been accurate, and the blue habit was quite flattering. “Foxhunting can be dangerous.”

Marjorie’s smile suggested dangerous was good. “For the fox, and he’s dangerous to the chickens, so it’s not exactly unfair. Mama didn’t like it, but I was always careful, and Papa loved to ride out. I used to go with him a lot when I was a girl, and Mama used to ride out sometimes too.”

“But you don’t ride with Aaron?”

“I haven’t felt welcome, though we occasionally meet up when we’re both out. We often do, now that I think about it.”

Well
done, my lord.
“And you’d rather be on your horse now, wouldn’t you?” Polly glanced out at the bleak, damp day and sent up a prayer for Gabriel’s back. She thought of such days as charcoal days, days when no color would be necessary to sketch the out of doors.

“I would rather be on a horse most all the time.”

“I’d rather be in the kitchen, making something delicious, hot, and sweet.” And what that description brought to Polly’s mind would have shocked the marchioness.

“A cup of chocolate?” Marjorie looked puzzled, because no doubt kitchens were terra incognita to her.

“An apple, walnut, and sour cream pie.” Polly felt a craving start up. “Sweet buns with lots of walnuts and a thick rummy glaze, maybe a big pot of chicken and vegetable stew with plenty of spices to it. Some toasted baguettes and butter melted with crushed garlic and a pinch of oregano…”

Marjorie’s perfect brows rose. “Good heavens. You can prepare these things?”

“One has to eat, my lady.” And if those were some of Gabriel’s favorite dishes, what of it? “It might as well be pleasurable.”

“Those buns you mentioned.” Marjorie rose with more purpose than grace. “Are they the type that might appeal to, say, men?”

“Come with me.” Polly took her by the hand. “The enemy is ours, or he will be by teatime.”

They baked right through lunch, until the entire house smelled of cinnamon and goodness, and then they baked some more, while a thick, savory stew cooked down on the big black stove in the main kitchen. An hour before teatime, Marjorie excused herself to take some buns to George when she invited him to share dinner, and Polly set about cleaning up, the kitchen staff having abandoned ship entirely rather than hover while the lady of the house played cook.

“I thought I’d find you here.” Gabriel sauntered into the kitchen, sniffing at the air.

Polly bent to wipe down the long counter under the window, though she could tell from his gait that his back wasn’t hurting. “The kitchen is forbidden to anybody with a title.”

“Did your cross moods always provoke you to baking?” In the manner of men who have more curiosity than common sense, he leaned over the cooling racks of sweet buns, peered at the pie, and unwrapped a long loaf of bread.

“Rainy days,” Polly said, not bothering to correct him for his forward question. It was personal, that question, a small intimacy, and whether he was entitled to it or not, a part of her liked that he’d ask. “It heats up the house, chases the chill away. If you’re going to purloin sweets…” She rewrapped the loaf. “Just do it.”

“I’m going to purloin sweets.” He came up behind her, and his arms fastened around her waist while his lips settled on the side of her neck.

“A sweet bun, you oaf.” But she tilted her head, and her hands settled over his muscular forearms.

“I prefer a more rare and precious delicacy.”

“Bother, you.” She closed her eyes, letting herself lean back against him.

“How are you feeling?” He rocked her against him, something his height and sheer muscular bulk made easy.

“I need to get off my feet, but I’m almost done cleaning up.”

“You hungry?”

“I am. A little.” And not only for sweets fresh from the oven.

He switched to the other side of her neck then petted her hip when he let her go.

“You finish wiping the counters. I’ll join you in a bowl of stew and a mug of tea.”

A shared meal, like so many they’d had at Three Springs, just the two of them, right in the kitchen and not at any particular hour. Gabriel would come in for a clean shirt or after spending a long night with a colicky beast, and Polly would feed him, mostly to make him sit down and catch his breath.

And simply to spend time with him.

She watched from the corner of her eye as he arranged two place settings at the worktable then sliced up a few pieces of fresh bread. He added a crock of butter to the offerings and poured them each a cup of tea. To hers, he added cream and sugar, and then he stood by her chair until Polly joined him at the table.

He pulled back her chair. “Get off your feet, Miss Hunt.”

“Yes, your lordship.” She let him seat her and paused to inhale the fragrance of the stew.

“Was Marjorie in here with you?” Gabriel asked as he took his seat.

Polly let him lead the conversation, because she was too busy taking in the sight of him dipping his bread into his stew like the peasant he’d impersonated for two years.

“Gabriel?”

He glanced up from buttering yet another slice of bread.

“Why were you at Three Springs?”

He set the bread down and directed his gaze to the blackened beams overhead, seeming to come to some decision. “The scar on my back?”

“I know it.”

“The blow was intended to be mortal, and was the first of several attempts on my life. I feared my brother was behind the attacks, and I needed a safe place to heal before I confronted him.”

Such a simple recitation for what was no doubt complicated. “Do you still think Aaron wanted you dead?” The question was put as evenly as she could manage, but God above, she liked Aaron Wendover. Liked him a lot.

“I do not.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Time.” Gabriel resumed dipping his bread. “His behaviors. He’s been increasingly reckless, and the gossip coming back to me was not about a man relishing his fortunate acquisition of a title; it was about a man dutifully bearing up under a burden he’d never seek. To hear how miserable Aaron was brought me a backhanded relief.”

And for two years, Polly had thought the worst of his troubles was a sore back or an empty belly. “You didn’t think you could tell us? We would have protected you, Gabriel.”

“I know that now, but it’s hard to convey how… rattled an injury like that, and the subsequent events, left me. I had much to learn about how most people go on in life.”

“In what fashion?” While he was willing to talk, Polly would press her advantage, because God knew he wasn’t willing to talk very often.

“I was… innocent, in some ways, Polonaise. I rarely paid coin for anything before I was hurt. I waved my beringed hand and directed the bills be sent here. I’d seldom saddled my own horse, never washed the dishes I’d eaten off of, never missed a meal unless I was sleeping off a drunk, never had to wash out my own linen because I hadn’t any spares. I’d never taken care of myself, so to speak, and hadn’t a clue how to go on.”

And more amazing than that recitation—for such as he were the people ruling the land—he could smile at the man he had been. “You were uneducated about life. When I departed for the Continent with Sara and Reynard, I was fifteen, an age at which many girls are engaged to be married. I knew nothing of life either.”

“You got a swift and difficult education.”

Polly wished she had the nerve to tell him how swift and how difficult her transition to adulthood had been.

“I did.” She squeezed his hand, though she wasn’t nearly finished with him. “Tell me why you couldn’t confide in us, Gabriel.”

“I was ashamed, my dear.” He’d put rueful humor into the observation, though Polly knew it had cost him.

“Of?”

“Of not being able to ensure my own survival.” He tore off a bite of his bread and held it poised over his bowl of stew. “Of having many drinking companions and cronies, but not even one friend whom I would trust to keep me safe against my brother’s supposed schemes. I was ashamed of not knowing how to go about proving Aaron’s guilt. I was stunningly helpless, and for the first time in my life, unsure of all I’d taken so easily for granted. Without belaboring the point, I was… afraid. That realization was as novel as it was unwelcome.”

“Knocked on your arse.” Polly snatched his uneaten bread away and tore off a bite. “It isn’t much fun.”

“It isn’t,” he agreed unsmilingly. “Then I began to enjoy my work at Three Springs and to enjoy being part of the household.”

“We were teetering on the brink of disaster before you arrived. Sara started including your back in her prayers, and then Allie did too. I could not help but follow suit.”

“And my back got better,” Gabriel said. “I should have told you, should have warned you ladies somebody might come calling to put period to my existence, except I’d been declared dead, so I should have been safe.”

“You were safe. I hope you told Beckman.”

“I told him.” Gabriel rose and ladled them both more hot stew. “I told him enough to explain why I had to leave. He would have thrashed me silly had I not.”

“I would have liked to have seen that.” Polly picked up her spoon. “This needs a pinch more tarragon.”

“You miss cooking?”

“Painting helps.” She took a cautious spoonful. “But yes, I miss cooking, and I miss meals around the kitchen table and Allie chattering about her day and you standing her on a chair at the sink so you could wash your hands together.”

“You miss her a great deal, don’t you?”

“Terribly.”

She stared at her food lest he catch her blinking, but there was a telling silence before she heard, “Eat your stew, Polonaise my love, and it lacks for nothing, save a little more of your delicious bread to enjoy with it.”

She bent her head and for once did as he told her without protest.

***

My love?

My
love?

Aaron backed down the hallway connecting the kitchen to the front stairs and let out a silent breath.

My love. Obviously, Gabriel and Miss Hunt had a past, one that related to Gabriel’s tenure as a steward for the previous two years. All thoughts of how to pipe the bathing chamber flew from Aaron’s head as he considered what he’d overheard.

Gabriel cared for the woman, perhaps even more than he himself knew. Aaron had been on the occasional carouse with his older brother. Gabriel was capable of flirtation, and the women, damn them, seemed to love his brand of imperious banter.

This wasn’t banter, for all it was tinged with high-handedness. Gabriel’s voice had held a
caressing
quality, a humility Aaron hadn’t heard previously.

Gabriel Felicitos Baptiste Wendover had admitted he was ashamed and afraid.

And he was still lying to his brother.

Aaron silently made his way to the library, sat at the large estate desk, and stared at the fire in the hearth for long, gloomy moments. When Gabriel had explained his whereabouts for the past two years, he’d been vague—an estate on the South Downs, a cook, a housekeeper, some laborers, their families, and then the owner’s grandson, but no names had been mentioned, save for that of Hildegard, an immense market sow of whom Gabriel had become inordinately fond.

Sara, Allie, Beck… and Miss Hunt, whose name was not the prosaic Polly, but the more lovely and musical Polonaise.

And for two years, Gabriel had lied to them as well.

Out of fear and shame, he could admit to the woman, but not to his brother.

Which was consistent with the pattern between surviving Wendover menfolk, truth be told. Gabriel’s dalliance with the artist was not the most significant secret the brothers had hanging in plain sight between them.

***

The first Wendover male to turn Marjorie’s head had not been her fiancé. Gabriel had been a looming presence on the edge of her life since her childhood, and Marjorie had tried to like him, tried to find things to approve of about him for as long as she’d understood they’d be married.

But all she’d succeeded in doing was finding more reasons to wonder how on earth they’d go on together. Gabriel had been impressive to her girlish eyes, but not particularly easy to spend time with. He was impatient by nature and gruff, and so… forbidding. She had dreaded their duty encounters and was no end of relieved to see him trotting off back down the driveway to return to school or university, or whatever young men got up to when their fiancées and families weren’t looking.

And it hadn’t been Aaron who was the first to charm her, though she’d developed a serious
tendresse
for him by the time she was thirteen and hadn’t felt the sentiment abate yet. Aaron had been good-humored, reassuring, and not at all cowed by his larger, darker older brother.

Even before her affection for Aaron became entrenched, however, she’d lost a part of her heart to George Wendover.

He’d been a handsome, robust man in his twenties when she’d taken a tumble off her pony, and George had been there to pluck her off the ground and toss her right back into the saddle.

George had
winked
at her. “Show the little blighter who’s boss, my girl. You can’t be allowing any fellow to treat you like that.”

Often, riding out with her groom, her path would cross George’s as he saw to the vast Hesketh acreage. Her own father was horse mad, as she’d been, but Papa had eight children and his own estate to see to. George had no children, and the vast majority of the estate he managed would never be his. He’d always had time to listen to Marjorie’s little woes and joys, and now that her papa was gone and her mama was determined to ruin Marjorie’s life, George’s friendly ear seemed the only one to be had.

“I’ve brought contraband,” Marjorie said when George ushered her into his study. He kept the door partly open, of course, but Marjorie closed it behind her.