Marriage Made In Shame(8)

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He actually spent the night thinking of Adelaide Ashfield. Her smile. Her blue eyes. The quiet lisp in her words. Friar was a threat to her in some way he could not as yet fathom. Gabriel knew that he was. He returned his attention to the notes spread across the table in front of him—maps, drawings and timings—as he searched for a pattern.

Clements was there somewhere in the middle of the puzzle though he had been careful to cover his tracks. His cousin George Friar told others that he had arrived in England a month or so before Henrietta had died, on the clipper Vigilant travelling between Baltimore and London. But when he had tracked down the passenger list for that particular voyage his name had not been upon it. Why would he lie about such a thing? Had he lied about who he was as well?

Frank Richardson had visited Friar and Clements, too. He had stayed over at the Whitehorse Tavern with John Goode, his cousin.

Four of them now. Gabriel knew there were six, because Henrietta Clements had told him so. She had been so angry she could barely talk when she had come to him at Ravenshill, that much he did remember.

‘My husband is here,’ she had said simply. ‘Right behind me, and I know for certain his political allegiances lie with France and Napoleon’s hopes. Take me away to the Americas, Gabriel. I have an aunt who lives there. In Boston. We could be free to begin again...together, for I have money I can access and much in the way of jewellery.’ Her arms came around him even as he tried to move away.

Then there was blankness, an empty space of time without memory. He had been trying to fill in the details ever since, but the only true and residing certainty he’d kept was the pain.

The knock at the door was expected, but still he stood to one side of the jamb and called out, ‘Who is it?’

‘Archie McCrombie, sir.’ The reply was firm.

Sliding the latch downwards, Gabriel ushered the small red-haired man inside, the cold air of evening blowing in with him and his coat lifting in the wind.

‘Friar is residing at Beaumont Street, where he has spent most of the last week enjoying the charms of Mrs Fitzgerald’s girls. I left Ben there to make certain he stays put.’

‘Did he meet anyone else?’

‘Frank Richardson, my lord. I did not recognise the others who came and went. Someone tailed me as I left, but I shook him off. Tall he was and well dressed. He does not seem to fit in around this side of town. He was armed, too, I would bet my life on the fact.’

‘Expecting trouble, then, or about to cause it?’

‘Both, I would say, sir. I’d have circled back and tailed him, my lord, if I wasnna meeting you.’

‘No, you did well. Give them some rope to hang themselves; we don’t just want one fish, we want all six of them.’

‘Yes, sir.’

After McCrombie left, Gabriel stood and walked to the window. It was raining outside and grey and the cold enveloped him, his life worn down into a shadow of what it had previously been.

His finances were shaky. He had gone through his accounts again and again, trying to find a way to cut down his spending, but his country estate of Ravenshill was bleeding out money as was his London town house. He wasn’t down to the last of his cash yet, as Daniel Wylde had been, but give it a few more years and...

He shook that thought away.

Once he had those associated with Clements he could leave London and retreat to Ravenshill Manor. Then he would sell off the town house. The new trading classes were always on the lookout for an old and aristocratic residence in the right location and he knew it would go quickly. In Essex he would be able to manage at least until his mother was no longer with him. He shook that thought away and swore softly as he remembered back to their conversation at dinner the night before.

‘You need to find a wife who would give you children, Gabriel. You would be much happier then.’

The anger that had been so much a part of him since the fire burgeoned. ‘I doubt I will ever marry.’

The tight skin on his right thigh underlined all that he now wasn’t. No proper women would have him in the state he was in and even courtesans and prostitutes were out of his reach. A no-man’s lad. A barren and desolate void.

When his mother reached out to place her hand over his he had felt both her warmth and her age. Her melancholy was getting worse, but he did not mention that as he tried to allay her fears.

‘Everything will work out. We will leave London soon and go up to Essex. You can start a garden and read. Perhaps even take up the piano again?’

Tears had welled in the old and opaque eyes. ‘I named you for the angel from the Bible, you know, Gabriel, and I was right to, but sometimes now I think there is only sadness left...’

Her words had tapered off and he shook his head to stop her from saying more, the teachings of the ancient shepherd of Hermas coming to mind.

‘In regard of faith there are two angels within man. One of Righteousness and one of Iniquity.’

The Angel of Iniquity was a better analogy to describe himself now, Gabriel thought, but refrained from telling her so.

The sum of his life. Wrathful. Bitter. Foolish. Cut off. Even Alan Wolfe, the Director of the British Service, had stated that Gabriel could no longer serve in the same capacity he had done, his profile after the fire too high for a department cloaked in secrecy.

So he had kept on at it largely alone, day after day and week after week. A more personal revenge. Once he had thought the emotion a negative one, but now...?

It was like a drug, creeping through his bones and shattering all that was dull; a questionable integrity, he knew that, but nevertheless his own.

The veneer of social insouciance was becoming harder and harder to maintain, the light and airy manners of a fop overlaying a heavy coat of steel. The lacy shirt cuffs, the carefully tied cravat. A smile where only fury lingered and an ever-increasing solitude.

Adelaide Ashfield’s honesty had shaken him, made him think, her directness piercing all that he had hoped to hide and so very easily. But there were things that she was not telling him, either, he could see this was so in the unguarded depths of those blue eyes. And Friar was circling around her, his derogatory evaluation of England’s royal family and its Parliament as much of a topic of his every conversation as his need to make a good marriage.

Revolution came from deprivation and loss, and he could not for the life of him work out why George Friar, a successful Baltimore businessman by his own account, would throw in his lot with the unpopular anti-British sentiments of his cousin. They were blood-related, but they were also wildly different people.

Perhaps it was in the pursuit of a religious fervour he had come with, the whispers of the young prince’s depravities rising. America’s independence had the same ring of truth to it, there was no doubt about that, a better way of living, a more equitable society and one unhampered by a monarch without scruples.

Conjecture and distrust. This is what his life had come to now, Gabriel thought, for he seldom took people at their face value any more, but looked for the dark blackness of their souls.

Gabriel strained to remember the laughter inside the words of Miss Adelaide Ashfield as he poured himself a drink, hating the way his hands shook when he raised the crystal decanter.

She was the first person he had ever met who seemed true and real and genuine, artifice and dissimulation a thousand miles from her honestly given opinions.

But he did wonder just who the hell had hurt her.





Chapter Five

Adelaide had tried to like Frederick Lovelace, the Earl of Berrick, but in truth he was both boring and vain, two vices that added together led to the third one of shallowness.

‘A titled aristocrat no less,’ her uncle had proclaimed after noticing Berrick’s interest at their last meeting, a lilt in his voice and pride in his step. ‘I thought Richard Williams a catch, but here is a man of ten thousand pounds a year, my dear, and a country home that is the envy of all who see it.’

As the earl in question regaled her with myriad facts about horse racing, however, Adelaide struggled to feign an interest.

Eventually he came to the end of his soliloquy and stopped. ‘Do you enjoy horses, Miss Ashfield?’ he queried, finally mindful of the fact that he had not asked one question that pertained to her as yet.

‘No. I generally try to stay well away from them, my lord.’ She saw the resulting frown of Lady Harcourt and her uncle as he began to speak.

‘My niece rides, of course, though the tutor I employed to teach the finer points found her timid. Perhaps you might take a turn together in Hyde Park if it suited you. I think she simply needs more practice at the sport to become proficient at it.

‘Indeed, if you were going there by any chance today, perhaps we could meet, Miss Ashfield? I should be more than willing to help in your equestrian education.’

Her uncle looked pleased and nodded with pride. ‘Well, now that you mention it we were intending to take a turn around the park.’

Adelaide did not deign to answer, but her pulse began to race. Please God that her uncle would not promise Berrick her company.

‘Perhaps my niece and I could meet you there around five?’

Short of refusing outright Adelaide could say nothing. At least her uncle would be with her, but it was just this sort of ridiculousness that had put her off coming to London right from the beginning.

‘I shall be there at five, then. Lord Penbury, Miss Ashfield.’ Taking her hand as everyone stood, Berrick bowed across it, his head barely reaching the top of her brow and a growing bald patch clearly visible.