‘My wife, sir, is none of your business.’
‘A fact for which I am eternally grateful. My hat’s off to you on that account. I don’t know how you can bring yourself to the point.’ Gabriel allowed himself a faint shudder.
Mowbray’s mouth opened and closed like that of a clockwork toy. The vein in his forehead stood out, throbbing.
‘Suffering an apoplexy?’ When Mowbray didn’t fall to the floor in a twitching heap, Gabriel smiled. ‘I suppose that was too much to hope for.’ He sighed and removed his gloves slowly. ‘I understand your mother’s pearls have gone missing?’
Mowbray eyed him warily.
‘I would suggest you check with her dresser. Perhaps they were sent out for repair? Or maybe they were simply left behind when you came to Town? At any rate, there’ll be no more mentioning them—or anything else but your deepest felicitations—to your sister. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Or what?’ Mowbray attempted to brazen it out, raising his chin so that he only had one, rather than his normal two.
Gabriel spun his walking stick in a lazy circle. ‘You seem to forget that while I may be, how did you put it—‘the Angelstone mongrel’ was it?—that I’m still an Angelstone. I’m the great-grandson of a duke. The brother-in-law of an earl.’
Gabriel allowed that to sink in. ‘And I’m one of three men in England who can touch Angelo. I’m more than happy to give you a personal demonstration if you’d like?’
Mowbray’s face twitched as though he were having a fit.
‘I thought not.’ He pulled his gloves back on. ‘It’s been a pleasure, sir. I’ll make sure and send you an invitation to the wedding. Your sister had best receive a contrite apology via the post by the time I see her next.’
Gabriel slouched down in his chair and blew out an irritated breath. He’d endured another helpful visit from George this afternoon, in which he’d been told in no uncertain terms to leave Imogen alone. To allow her to come around to the idea slowly before he pressed his case. Mowbray had sent a damned insufficient letter in his opinion, but his Nymph was assured, in writing, that their mother’s pearls had been found.
Damn all helpful, interfering women. Damn them especially for being right. At least he’d been able to relate his interview with Mowbray. That had pleased George to no end.
He got up and poured himself a drink and stood staring at the portrait of Imogen that hung over the mantel. He set his glass down hard enough to break it, amber liquid streaming down the marble.
There she was, the teasing smile he’d come to know so well just peeping out, the shoulder which had been her downfall revealed in all its glory. He retreated to the centre of the room from which he could better study the larger than life rendition of his nymph. She hadn’t changed much since it had been painted. Perhaps she was a little thinner, a little more serious, but not one jot less beautiful.
It really was an amazing portrait. It captured Imogen perfectly, from her wildly spiralling curls, to her elegantly shod feet. Firth had even managed to show the subtle sparkle of her eyes, and the enigmatic smile that lurked in the corner of her mouth.
There didn’t seem to be anything so terribly provocative about it. But people saw what they wanted to see, and it only took one society tabby with a wagging tongue to have started the rumour, and then people would have wanted to believe it; to watch the downfall of such a beautiful young political hostess.
That prospect would have been titillating and extremely satisfying to those members of the ton who revelled in the downfall of others. Irresistible, in fact. Lord knew they’d dug their claws into him often enough for him to sympathize.
And it was clear from the painting that whether she’d been guilty or not, the artist had been in love with his subject. She’d have been better off going to Gainsborough or Reynolds rather than to the young rising star.
With a groan Gabriel threw himself back into his chair. This was not how he’d planned things. Not how things should be. He should not be trapped here alone with nothing but a facsimile of his nymph. Even one as enchanting as this one.
By all rights he should be sitting across from the flesh and blood woman—or better yet—making love to her in the bed behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
We can only speculate as to what the Angelstone Turk could possibly have to discuss with the Portrait Divorcée’s brother…and speculate we shall.
Tête-à-Tête, 3 December 1789
The night of the Morpeth’s ball, Imogen realized she hadn’t seen Gabriel in weeks. A long collection of days in which she’d been hauled around the city, to musicals, dinner parties, boating parties, the theatre, the opera, even to a cricket match played on a cold, frozen pitch; if it was a social event of any significance, she’d attended.
She had been, if not deluged, then at least slightly flooded with invitations. Everyone wanted her at their parties; if for no other reason, than that they were hoping the hinted at liaison with Gabriel would come to a head there, burning their event permanently into the memories of all the attendees.
To date she had been happy to disappoint them.
Tonight she had been included in the pre-ball dinner, along with all of the Morpeth’s family and closest friends. Including not only Gabriel, but the prime minister, Mr Pitt. He had not been the prime minister when she had been active as a political hostess, but he was well-known to her all the same. Perrin was one of his supporters.
She was extremely grateful that he was seated at the far end of the table near the earl. It was bad enough to have been on the receiving end of one of his condescending glares earlier as they had all assembled in the
