No woman had ever had the power to hurt him. Not in this manner. And he was finding that escape was the only answer. He couldn’t sleep because she haunted his dreams. He couldn’t eat because food turned to ash in his mouth and was impossible to swallow. Couldn’t whore, because they were a pale shadow of the woman he wanted. All he could do was drink. Drink and gamble. God only knew how much money he’d lost in the last month. He certainly didn’t; nor did he care.
Gabriel allowed his friends to steer him out of the gallery. They hit the pavement outside and Gabriel flinched and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the bright light. ‘So, George set you two on me?’
‘Don’t be an ass, Brimstone.’ Layton gave him a shove and started walking.
‘My cousin then?’
‘I believe Lady Morpeth did give me a message for you.’ St Audley fell into step beside him. ‘She told me to tell you to quit making such a spectacle of yourself.’
Gabriel glared and stumbled over a loose cobble in the street as they crossed Piccadilly. The dandy-trap spurted muck and water up onto his hose. He cursed and shook his foot. ‘You can tell my lovely cousin to mind her own bloody business.’
‘I shall tell her no such thing,’ St Audley protested. ‘Come on, let’s get that drink, you could obviously use a bit of the hair of the dog, not to mention a shave and a clean shirt.’
Gabriel went along tame enough. A drink was exactly what he wanted, and while he’d rather have it on his own, at one of the numerous gaming hells that enjoyed his patronage, he’d settle for White’s. It was easier than fighting. Layton and St Audley might be two of the more easy-going members of their circle, but they could be as tenacious as terriers with a rat cornered in a wall when the occasion called for it.
George watched her friend as she intently applied herself to her needlework. Imogen was working on a christening gown. She’d begun the day they’d returned from Winsham Court, and she was nearly done now. The fine white cambric was almost completely covered in complicated white on white tambour work, the pattern based on the jacket one of Ivo’s great-grandfathers wore in a portrait. Imogen didn’t seem to do anything but sew, play the pianoforte, and go for fast rides across the countryside.
She had refused to discuss what had transpired between her and Gabriel, telling George nothing further than she had the morning Gabriel had fled the Court. George hated it that her friends were making each other miserable, and her mind had been busy trying to find a way to bring about a reconciliation. But if she couldn’t get Imogen to confide in her, her only option was to corner Gabriel, and that was a slightly more complicated undertaking. Especially if what Victoria had written was true, and Gabriel was busy drinking himself to death and gambling away his fortune as quickly as he could roll a die or turn a card.
He was going to respond like a wounded bear.
Perhaps a trip to town was in order? But first she should write Helen Perripoint. A soiree at Helen’s would be the perfect excuse for them all to take a trip to town, and unlike a larger function, Imogen could hardly decline to attend an event being held by one of her oldest friends.
Leaving Imogen to enjoy the company of her tambour frame, George took herself off to the library and penned a quick note to Helen and another to Victoria. She was going to need all the help she could get if she was going to bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Whatever has put the Angelstone Turk’s nose out of joint? Pry as we may, no answer has been forthcoming…
Tête-à-Tête, 18 November 1789
Mrs Perripoint’s soiree was in full swing when Gabriel made his belated appearance. It had taken him half the night and several glasses of brandy to decide that he was attending.
Helen had not mentioned that his nymph would be there, but it was obvious that she was likely to be present. And he wanted to see her, desperately; almost as much as he dreaded seeing her.
He’d convinced himself that he wouldn’t go; wouldn’t give himself the chance to make a fool of himself again. But as the night had worn on, he had found himself wandering aimlessly towards Mrs Perripoint’s on more than one occasion. And when the brightly lit house had appeared in front of him, he’d gone up the stairs and entered the house, unable not to.
Gabriel snatched a glass of champagne from a passing footman and ran an eye over the crowd, searching for Imogen. When he spotted George off to one side, chatting with Helen and Lord Cardross, he was sure his nymph was hidden somewhere in the merry horde that had invaded Helen’s house.
He worked his way carefully around the room, eyes busily searching out a particular head of curly dark hair. When he finally located her, he almost wished that he hadn’t. She was moving through a set, partnered by Drake.
His hand clenched involuntarily, breaking the stem of his glass. He batted at his sleeve, brushing off the droplets of champagne. A footman appeared and took away the broken glass, while a maid wiped the floor with a towel. Several of the guests were staring, but Gabriel didn’t give a damn. Let them stare.
Thankful only that Imogen had not seen him, Gabriel cursed under his breath and worked his way through the milling guests, steering wide of the dancers. He found an unoccupied spot along the wall, and leaned his shoulders back against the papered surface. He really should leave, but he wasn’t going to. Not until he’d seen Imogen. Privately.
Drake spun her through the steps of the dance, touching her far
