Instead, he forced himself to imagine sitting opposite Felicity in the breakfast parlor at Finch House, a twelvemonth hence, discussing…nothing of importance. They would have risen from their separate beds and met there quite by accident. She would be poring over her invitations. He would only too gladly offer to breakfast at his club instead.
Better yet, she would be at Stoke by next spring. A baby in the nursery, or on the way. He would stay in town, of course, and—and what? Visit Tattersalls and pretend to care about horseflesh? God, he could hardly imagine anything more boring.
But boredom was his goal in a way, was it not? No more gambles. Just a life of quiet respectability until he passed Stoke Abbey, his title, and all the rest, whole and—well, not unblemished, but hopefully polished up a bit—to his own son.
And to do that, he need only spend the rest of his life with Lady Felicity Trenton, for whom he did not, and thank God would never, feel anything like passion. If that seemed like too great a price to pay, then he had forgotten the most important lesson of his childhood: the sort of wretched bills that came due when a man wagered with his heart instead of his head.
When he let himself into his rooms with his key, all was quiet. His footsteps echoed along the corridor; the rugs had been rolled up in preparation for his move to Finch House. Here and there sat a half-full packing crate. Skirting them with care, he made his way to his study, expecting to find more crates, hoping at least that his chair still sat by the window.
It did. But it was not empty.
Clad in the sort of clothes that would allow him to slip in unnoticed almost anywhere, Remington sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, an unlit pipe clutched in one hand. Fox sat in the chair opposite, in a similar posture of defeat. When Remy offered to rise, Gabriel waved him off. They had never really stood on the normal ceremony of master and servant; he saw no need to start tonight.
“What is it, then?”
Fox raised hollow eyes to his face. “I’ve come straight from Victoria’s. Lord Havisham was there, bending Dalrymple’s ear about the assassination attempt on the king. Seems the culprits have been caught. A French girl and two men claiming to be her brothers.”
French. Just as Uncle Finch had suggested. “Oh?” It was a struggle to keep his voice flat, uninterested. Had the man made a lucky guess, or was he in a position to know something? “That’s good news, I presume?”
“For some.” Remy fiddled with his pipe.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Gabriel looked from one to the other expectantly. “Out with it.”
“The girl’s name is Adele Vallon.”
Gabriel dropped like a stone onto the footstool. “Damn.”
“So it’s true?” Fox demanded. “You do know her?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Now is not the time for mincing words, Ash. Was she your mistress?” His friend did not meet his eye, clearly wary of the answer.
“No. No!” But even the second, more forceful denial was met with skepticism, a slight raising of the shoulders, like a man warding off a blow. Or a lie. “I met her at a gaming establishment—”
“One of those wretched hells, I suppose you mean?”
“Yes.” One of the seediest. The sort he frequented only when his prey could not be run to ground elsewhere. “She was working the floor. When Viscount Steyne made her a, ah, proposal, I…intervened.” He had spoken to her in French as she passed on Steyne’s arm, and relief had flooded her expression. Her dark eyes, overlarge in a narrow, sallow face, had been enough to confirm his suspicion: she was too young and knew too little English to be making the devilish sort of bargain he had just overheard her making with that libertine. Spurning the viscount, she had latched onto Gabriel instead, clinging to his arm, treating him as a sort of protector.
Foolish, foolish girl.
“Did you think how it would look?”
“What did I care? I had nothing to lose, while she had everything.” At that, Fox, who had been studying the scuffed toe of one boot with a frown, lifted his gaze, and Gabriel thought he glimpsed a slight softening in his steely eyes. “It’s nonsense, of course,” he declared. “Adele an assassin?” She was incapable of such a crime.
Still, he had to force a note of conviction into his voice. He could believe she might be guilty of poor judgment. Despite his efforts, had she fallen in with those of her countrymen who were less than fond of the English monarch, those less deserving of compassion? He could not help but ask, “Where is she now?”
“The Tower.”
The image of hulking stone walls rose in his mind, and he had to suppress a shiver, as if their chill pressed against his own flesh. “But she’s no more than a girl.”
“Sadly, children are not always innocent, my lord.”
Remy’s words were an unfortunate echo of Uncle Finch’s familiar charge, and they pushed his mind back once again to that odd encounter on the street. Chance, some would have called it. But he was too experienced a gambler to believe in any such thing. Understanding dawned with all the cruel clarity of sunrise after a night of
