Gabriel was still brooding when St Audley’s set ended, and Alençon claimed Imogen for the supper dance. It was the final feather in her cap. Many of the people who would be willing to challenge George and Victoria over their championing such a black sheep, would bend to the duke’s opinion. If Alençon approved, so would most of the toad eaters who aped him, which—as he was well aware—could prove useful when wielded purposefully.
With an irritated frown marring his features, Gabriel left the ballroom. He had been forbidden to go near her for now, and he’d be damned if he spent the entire night watching her like some moonling.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
We have only recently come face-to-face with the reality that nothing—not even adultery—can withstand the combined will of two or more peeresses…how else to explain Society’s warm embrace of a certain fallen woman?
Tête-à-Tête, 10 December 1789
Two weeks later Gabriel was still at loose ends, sulking about his own home, or doing his best to make the days pass quickly by tiring himself at Angelo’s fencing salle, or one of the other places in which the Corinthian set participated in their chosen pastimes. He’d fenced until his legs burnt, until his sword arm shook with fatigue. He’d spent hours at Tattersalls looking over horses, and what seemed like days watching Mendoza practice for an upcoming match and sparring with whichever of his friends was willing to take his punches.
He had an afternoon appointment with his cousin Julian at Angelo’s, but for now he was merely trying to kill the time between now and then. He poked his head into Sandby’s studio, and spent an absorbing half-hour studying the landscapes on display, then he wandered off to George’s former abode.
The house was now simply known by its nickname from the days when George had lived there: The Top Heavy. He was admitted by the butler, and after divesting himself of his hat and gloves, he made his way up the stairs and entered the first floor drawing room.
The large room was nearly filled to capacity today. Men of all descriptions lounged about, drinking, reading, playing cards.
Gabriel helped himself to a whisky and picked up a copy of Philosophical Transactions from the table beside him. A Supplementary Letter on the Species of the Dog, Wolf and Jackel, Observations of the Class of Animals, called by Linnaeus, Amphibia, An Account of a Monster of the Human Species, Abstract of a Register of the Barometer, Thermometer, and Rain at Lyndon in Rutland.
Good god. At least the first few looked promising. He flipped past the letter pertaining to dogs and the like and settled into Linnaeus’ Amphibia, not so much reading it, as distracting himself with it. Before he’d waded through the second page the room erupted with a whoop, and he looked up to see George, a huge grin nearly splitting her face. She wasn’t here nearly as much as the men would have liked, but she did still try to put in as many appearances as possible when she was in Town.
She was instantly engulfed, all of them wanted to kiss her hand, give her a message from someone else, or report in on how their mutual friends were doing back on the continent.
She was in her element.
For several minutes she was almost lost to sight, and then the group broke apart, and she swanned into the room, Imogen in tow. Gabriel felt his stomach drop, and his mouth go dry. In the hubbub, Imogen didn’t even see him. She broke away from George and made her way to the unoccupied window seat.
Gabriel waited, the sound of the clock ticking on the mantel distinct even above the lively chatter filling the room. Then slipped over and sat down beside her. He immediately called her attention to a woman walking on the opposite side of the street.
‘When George lived here we used to have what we called The Unofficial Ugly Hat Derby,’ he said, ignoring the excited thrumming of his body as her eyes met his and she made room for him beside her. ‘That monstrosity is a definite contender.’ Imogen smiled at him, and he felt compelled to add, ‘Possibly even a champion.’
‘A champion ugly hat?’
‘Almost certainly, look, it even has fruit on it.’
Imogen leaned closer to the window, trying to get a better look as the woman disappeared down the street. Fake fruit and entire birds were rather vulgar. Especially when displayed together.
‘Cherries,’ he replied with certainty.
Imogen couldn’t see them. The woman was now too far away. ‘She’s gone round the corner.’ She rubbed at the spot her nose had left on the glass with her thumb.
‘There’ll be another entry along in a minute or two. There always is.’
Imogen made herself a little more comfortable, keeping her attention firmly on the street below. She didn’t need to look at Gabriel to be aware of him; she’d been aware of him from the moment she’d entered the room, and it had taken considerable willpower to not go directly to him.
His presence always acted upon her like a loadstone.
They sat together in a tension filled silence. Imogen scanning the street for any topic of distraction, Gabriel watching her. She could feel him watching her as surely as if he’d reached out and run a hand over her.
One of the men playing cards at the table nearest the window lit a pipe and she sneezed.
‘Shall we step out into the garden?’
‘Yes, please.’ She sneezed again, and then sniffled, digging down through the layers of her petticoats and into her pocket for her handkerchief. Her hand slid over the cold metal of her vinaigrette and her face flamed.
They slipped out of the room, both of them giving the settee George was holding court upon a wide berth. She followed Gabriel down the stairs and out into the small private garden that ran behind the house and down to a gate that
