Kate Noble (29 page)

AND
thus the unusual friendship of Gail Alton and Max Fontaine fell apart.

It wasn’t with a war of words or a fading away as time and distance came between them. It was abrupt, forced by their own consciences.

They no longer spoke. When circumstances caused them to be in the same room, they barely did more than acknowledge the other’s presence. And every moment of strained politeness was a turn of the knife.

The problem of avoiding each other proved to be nothing more than a trick of scheduling. Max called less frequently at Number Seven, and when he did, Gail somehow managed to be spending that day about town with some new friends.

“She’s where?” Romilla blurted out one afternoon.

“Shopping,” Evangeline answered, “with Lilly and Lavender Pickering.”

“Willingly?” Romilla asked incredulously, but Evangeline just shrugged.

This news gave Romilla serious pause.

But alas, she did not have much time to focus on Gail’s odd behavior, for almost directly thereafter, things began occurring one on top of the other.

The first Event of Note was Count Roffstaam announcing his day of departure. Mrs. Holt, who had taken to her guest, but was yet so happy to have him leaving her beleaguered cook alone, announced a ball to be given in his honor.

“Another one?” Evangeline and Gail cried in tandem, only to be put off by a wave of Romilla’s hand. She had promised Mrs. Holt to jointly host the affair and spent a great deal of time with that lady preparing the guest lists. The Holts’s Mayfair residence, while purchased with “trade money,” as Lady Charlbury called it, was quite grand and perfect for hosting an intimate reception for more than five hundred people. Upon seeing the impressive residence and being greeted most warmly by Mrs. Holt, Romilla quickly decided that despite the acquisition of wealth through labor, the Holts could be worth knowing. She spent nearly every afternoon with that good lady finalizing preparations, often dragging the girls along with her. Gail was bored to tears by these outings, but Evangeline took to Mrs. Holt as easily as Romilla did, albeit without such mercenary motives.

The second Event of Note occurred soon after the announcement of the Count’s imminent departure. Sir Geoffrey received his appointment to the ministry. It was done quietly, and without fuss, only a dinner party of fifty of their closest friends to celebrate the event and a front-page announcement, courtesy of an editor friend at the
Times
, discreetly below the fold. By now Romilla had become quite adept at throwing a dinner party at a moment’s notice, and she did so with ease and flair. “Grasping” was no longer a phrase that befell them—at least not as often. For Romilla was fast becoming one of London’s most sought after hostesses—a position that unabashedly thrilled her. The Duke of Wellington even stood up and toasted his newest foreign minister, saying that he was never so happy as to have such an intelligent, honest, and upstanding gentleman working for the good of England.

Lord Fontaine was of course invited, and this time, his opinion was listened to with interest and consideration. He was seated, at Sir Geoffrey’s behest, near enough to him to partake in any conversation, the elder gentleman making certain to show the audience his undoubted approval of the younger.

While Max enjoyed this attention, his mind was occupied with things other than his future father-in-law’s approval. Indeed, he had difficulty concentrating on the conversation, with Gail seated across from him, not meeting his gaze, not sharing a laugh with him when someone misquoted Shakespeare. Not saying a word to him at all.

NO
one should for a moment infer that the actions (or inactions) of Miss Gail Alton and Lord Fontaine went unnoticed by the other players in this piece. They weren’t necessarily connected, however.

Romilla was, as always, the shrewdest of the lot. It had begun to prick at her curiosity that Lord Fontaine’s visits had become less frequent. The month of courting was almost up, soon they would have to announce the betrothal. She began to worry that he had lost interest in Evangeline and would go against his word and jilt her. Oh, what a fiasco that would be! Sir Geoffrey’s new appointment could be taken away, or his power considerably lessened if his family were embroiled in scandal. Indeed, now that he would have the position, they had to be more careful than ever. Thinking that Lord Fontaine was distracted from his ravishing bride, Romilla approached her husband.

“But what would you have me do about it? I have the boy’s word,” he said gruffly, pouring over papers in his library. Romilla sighed. She had interrupted him to discuss the invitation list for his celebratory dinner party, and he was barely paying attention!

Really, ever since this Barivia business, Geoffrey had become more and more embroiled in his work, Romilla thought. It would be nice if he’d at least look at her when she spoke.

“You should make it known publicly that you approve of him, make his ties seem very close with the family. That kind of public support will place him more firmly in—”

“Our clutches?” her husband finished.

“For lack of better phrasing,” Romilla replied haughtily, “yes. At the dinner party. Make certain it is known you think very highly of Lord Fontaine.”

“Fine,” Sir Geoffrey sighed. “Seat him near me. He’d be a good one to ask about these translations, anyway,” he said, rubbing his eyes and indicating the papers.

“You could ask Abigail,” Romilla ventured. At her husband’s look of confusion, she added, “Gail. Your daughter.”

“She’s off having fun. Besides, I thought you wanted me to talk with Fontaine.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Romilla replied quickly. After a considering pause, she spoke again. “Speaking of, I’m a little worried about Abi—I mean, Gail.”

“What about her?” Sir Geoffrey grumbled, his eyes on his work.

“Well, it seems she’s spent the past few days with the Pickerings…”

Sir Geoffrey blinked at his wife. “What of it?”

“It’s just…I know she’s not particularly fond of the Pickerings,” Romilla continued, realizing even as she spoke how weak her argument sounded.

“Nonsense,” Sir Geoffrey scoffed. “If Gail didn’t like someone, she wouldn’t waste time with them. They’re silly, but harmless—and it’s good for Gail to make some friends. I really wish you wouldn’t bother me with little worries like this, my dear. I’ve a mountain of work to do.” And with that Sir Geoffrey returned his tired eyes to the papers in front of him.

Romilla nodded and left her husband to his work. After she shut the door, she realized sadly that he hadn’t noticed she was wearing his favorite frock.

BUT
Romilla was far too busy a woman to reflect sadly on anything overlong and so went about the business of assisting Mrs. Holt with the Count’s ball, once the dinner party was out of the way. Therefore, she was not in the house when the next Event of Note occurred.

In fact, none of the family was at home except Gail.

Sir Geoffrey was at his new offices, as always, and Romilla had left just after tea to pay a call on Mrs. Holt, Evangeline in tow. After some discreet questioning, Gail found that Will Holt was expected to be there, which therefore raised the chances of Max being in attendance considerably. Accordingly, Gail had claimed she had fallen behind in correspondence (a bald-faced lie, but surprisingly no one questioned it) and stayed at home with a book.

Having just settled into blissful solitude with a copy of the latest gothic novel, she was greatly alarmed when someone began knocking furiously on her bedchamber door.

“Oh, Miss Gail, you must come downstairs at once!” Mrs. Bibb said when Gail answered the door. “There is a caller.”

“Mrs. Bibb, I told Morrison to tell all callers no one was at home,” Gail said, perplexed.

“We tried that, but he won’t go away—and he’s not the type o’ gent one can easily dismiss,” Mrs. Bibb replied, worrying her hands.

“Who is it? The duke?” Gail ventured as Mrs. Bibb, unable to wait any longer, grabbed her young mistress’s hand, dragging her down the steps.

“Nay, miss,” Mrs. Bibb answered. They came to a halt before the drawing room doors. “I sent a note to your lady stepmother, but someone needs to go attend him now.” Mrs. Bibb pulled Gail to face her, ruthlessly smoothing her hair and brushing out the wrinkles in her skirts.

“Is it the king? Mrs. Bibb, stop that!” Gail said, swatting at the housekeeper’s hands. “Really, I cannot imagine who would be worth all this fuss.”

Satisfied with Gail’s appearance, Mrs. Bibb opened the door to the drawing room, and shoved her through.

“Dratted girl! Shut that door. This house is drafty as a tomb.”

The old man sat by an abnormally high fire, his sharp green gaze glinting as he looked her up and down.

Gail took his measure.

“You must be the Earl.”

“
SO
you know me, do you girl? You’ve been forewarned, then?” The Earl kept his razor-sharp gaze on his quarry as she coolly moved to take the seat across from him.

“Not yet! Come closer. Let me get a good look at you,” Gail obliged, standing under the Earl’s scrutiny for a full minute in silence. She met his gaze and did her own assessment. He was old, she realized, so much older than she had imagined. He must have fathered Max quite late in life. The blue tones of the drawing room that brought out Evangeline’s complexion made the Earl’s already pale skin take on a deathly pallor. His posture was hunched in on itself, and his gnarled hands rested on a gold-headed cane. But in his face, in his eyes, was the active, shrewd mind of a man half as young.

“Good, good. Healthy child,” the Earl murmured. “Although perhaps too tall for my liking.” He waved his hand for Gail to take a seat, all the while regarding her with an aloof manner that could disarm royalty.

“To answer your earlier question, I was not, er, forewarned about you. You rather unmistakably have your son’s eyes,” she said, nervously settling back into the chair.

“It is he who has my eyes, and don’t you forget it, missy.”

And his officious manner, apparently.

The fire crackled and sparked in the hearth, while Gail searched for something…anything to say.

“I must apologize,” she stammered, unused to playing hostess, “you have caught my parents and sister out of the house, but they will be back directly. Would you care for some tea, or…?”

“No, no.” He cut her off with a wave of his twisted hand. “Didn’t come to speak with them. I came here to see you.”

An eyebrow shot up. Why would the Earl wish to see her? Unless…but that was impossible. Gail knew Max had little to do with his father, how would he…Could he know about what occurred in the park? And at the museum…Gail suddenly flushed.

“You should blush,” the Earl’s eyes narrowed, “for what you’ve done to snare my son. But for some reason, the idiot seems to care for you, given his devotion, so I wanted to see what the next Countess of Longsbowe was made of.”

Ah, that was it. Gail didn’t know whether to be relieved or cry. The Earl thought she was Evangeline, that it was she who would marry Max. Gail opened her mouth to correct the Earl’s assumption but was interrupted again.

“You had better have some good tricks up your sleeve, my girl, because you’re not pretty enough to hold his interest six months together.”

Anger suddenly flared to life, brighter than what burned in the hearth.

“And what do you know of your son’s interests?” she asked, her voice deceptively low.

“I know my son,” the Earl stated.

“No you don’t. You don’t know your son at all.” Before she could stop it, Gail’s tongue was off and running. “Did you know he nearly single-handedly brokered a trade deal with a foreign country? That he speaks six languages, including Latin? That he for some unknown reason thinks Beethoven is the best composer to have ever breathed? No, of course not. If you did know your son, you would have realized that cutting off his allowance wouldn’t stop him from living. You wouldn’t call someone who is so obviously brilliant an idiot, and you certainly wouldn’t dare attempt to fit him into some untenable mold of your officious, overbearing self.”

The Earl went white with rage. His hand tightened on his gold-headed cane.

“You dare insult me in such a manner?!”

“As you dared insult me
in my own home
,” she said, leaning back in her chair and steepling her fingers in a dead-on imitation of her father at his most imperious. And although she looked to possess that steely calm, her mouth was dry, her palms sweaty, and inwardly Gail was quaking. What had she done? She had let her tongue run away with her, that’s what. Almost immediately upon seeing the Earl, all of the progress she had made in the past few weeks, all of the happy manners she had learned to affect, gone with one insult.

The Earl’s hand shook as he waggled a finger at her. “You should be more careful how you speak to the father of the man you will marry,” he said menacingly.

“I’m certain I shall,” she retorted, “but luckily, I have no call to impress you.” At his surprised look, she explained, “I am Gail Alton. Max is to marry my sister, Evangeline.”