George’s smile grew, cocking up on one side, while his cousin settled back into her chair as though nothing at all had just occurred.
‘Then you’d better figure out how to get her, hadn’t you?’ George said, her expression suddenly benevolent. ‘And I’d advise you start with the brother.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The sight of the Angelstone Turk ape drunk in the street has become an all too common one. One would think the cause would have been driven to take pity by now…
Tête-à-Tête, 19 November 1789
Imogen ruthlessly jammed the gown she was holding into the trunk, hopelessly crushing it. She didn’t pause when George entered, but continued to shove it down.
George eyed her thoughtfully and dropped into a chair a few feet away. ‘Going somewhere?’ the countess inquired, as if what was going on wasn’t perfectly obvious.
Imogen stiffened. She stopped what she was doing momentarily, leaving the train of the gown dangling out of the trunk like a waterfall of calico. She was behaving badly, and she knew it, but she had to escape. To get away from Gabriel, from Town, from everything; to return to someplace quieter, somewhere she could think logically again. Someplace her brother wouldn’t find her…
‘You and the earl have always made it clear that I am welcome to the use of your carriage whenever I might want it. To date I never have.’ She paused to pull the crumpled gown from the trunk and fold it neatly before putting it back in, rearranging the crushed dress in her trunk. ‘I’d like to return to Barton Court to get my things, and then I have to leave. Edinburgh, maybe even Dublin. I don’t know…’
‘Of course,’ George replied, her tone as conciliatory. ‘I sincerely hope you’re not taking such a step because of Gabriel. I assure you, there’s no need for such drastic action.’
Imogen goggled at her, her brows drawn together in a frown. ‘There’s every need,’ she insisted passionately, aghast that the countess truly didn’t understand the position she was in.
She was on the brink of causing yet another scandal. A scandal which would forever cement the image of her as little better than a Cyprian in the eyes of the world. And she was going to drag the countess’s friend down with her.
If he continued to badger her—to propose to her, to kiss her—she was going to falter, and then their marriage would be the talk of the town. The infamous Brimstone and the Portrait Divorcée. She’d make a laughing stock of him, and he’d ruin her.
Her brother would cause all the trouble he could, too. And knowing Richard, the trouble would be considerable. He hated her, and he loathed Gabriel. He’d delight in torturing them.
All she’d wanted was a quiet place to live, a few friends, and perhaps to make herself useful. Why did he have to go and complicate things? Rakes were not supposed to propose marriage. They were supposed to avoid it like the plague. But Gabriel—damn him—wasn’t playing by the established rules.
He’d been the very pattern card of the charming, dissolute man-about-town. The perfect choice for a simple, quiet affair. The kind of thing Helen had been recommending to her for ages. Why did he have to break character and ruin everything?
The countess’s brow puckered, and she held out her hand. ‘Come and explain it to me then. I didn’t press you the last time this came up, but I do know Gabriel rather well. Perhaps I could help?’
He was going to kill Richard Mowbray.
Wrap his hands around the little toad’s neck and squeeze until it popped right off. Gabriel raised his walking stick and knocked on the door of No. Twenty-Six Queen Street with enough force that the silver head dented the wood.
She’d said no because some underhanded threat Mowbray had cooked up. Water spilt off his greatcoat, pooling on the small porch. He raised his cane and knocked again.
The door cracked open and he brushed past the startled footman hard enough that the man’s wig was knocked askew. She’d said no, and she hadn’t told him the reason. Damn her. Why hadn’t she told him?
‘Mr Mowbray’s not at home, sir.’ The footman adjusted his wig, attempting to reassert his dignity and his authority.
‘Of course he is. Saw him come in myself. He’s just damn lucky I value my membership at White’s too highly to have cornered him there. Mowbray!’ His shout echoed off the wainscoting.
Several doors opened all at once. A wisp of a maid ducked back into whatever room she was cleaning, like a mouse scurrying to hide. A second footman appeared from below stairs, clambering down the hall with a loud, graceless tread.
‘Mowbray, in private, or in public. It’s your choice.’
His quarry appeared at the top of the stairs, red-faced and quivering with the impotent anger of a King Charles Spaniel cornered by the butcher’s dog. ‘I have nothing to say to you Angelstone. Get out of my house.’
‘But I have several things to say to you, Mowbray.’ Gabriel stalked up the stairs, taking each step with deliberation, his eyes never leaving Imogen’s brother.
Mowbray held his position until Gabriel reached out and grabbed him by the lapel. ‘Come along, then.’ He dragged him down the corridor.
Gabriel propelled his prisoner through the first door, sending him sprawling onto the floor. ‘Clumsy oaf, aren’t you?’
He turned his back and crossed the room. Above the mantel a barefoot goatherd wooed a blushing shepherdess under a canopy of linden trees. ‘A Boucher? Really?’ He turned around in time to see Mowbray heave himself to his feet. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it of you. I’d have put you down as more of a Cozen’s man. Maybe a Jones?’
‘I’ll kill you. I’ll—I’ll have you arrested for house-breaking. I’ll—’
‘You’ll shut up, and perhaps by doing so you’ll live long enough to sire a dynasty of little Mowbrays on
