Absolute Pleasure (36 page)

Gabriel had thought that she would deny their association! As if she would! He must have mentioned that it was likely, and the realization pained her. How could he presume that she was still so incensed? The scoundrel knew her better than that!

"At one time,''' she acknowledged, "he was my best friend."

"How lucky for you," the solicitor broached. "He seems like a fine man."

"He is," she concurred. "I always thought he was remarkable."

"I'm glad to hear you admit as much. Mr. Cristofore had voiced some skepticism as to your opinion on the subject. I take it the two of you had a falling-out?"

"It was hideous," she caught herself confirming. "It was all my fault. I was upset, and I said some appalling things."

"Funny," Mr. Thumberton chuckled, "but Mr. Cristofore made exactly the same comment when I conferred with him in London."

"We're both hardheaded."

"He said that, too."

"What are you to tell me?" She couldn't dawdle over the niceties. Her hopes were spiraling, her confidence soaring. Did Gabriel wish to make amends? Why else would he have sent Mr. Thumberton if not for a reconciliation?

"Mr. Cristofore has charged me with delivering several items that belong to you."

"What?" She was confused. She hadn't left any possessions at the cottage.

He motioned behind the sofa, to the corner, where she hadn't noticed a large package, covered with brown paper, that was balanced against a chair.

"You commissioned Mr. Cristofore to paint your portrait."

"Yes."

That's all this was? A business transaction?

Her spirits plummeted. She felt as if a hole had been rent in her core, and her reserve of energy was flowing out across the floor. She'd been so positive that his message would be of atonement and absolution! This cold, indifferent contact was too agonizing to be believed.

"Many thanks to you," she managed to mumble.

"He apologizes for taking so long, but he was detained by personal events. He hopes you will excuse the delay."

"Certainly."

She was hardly able to focus on what he was saying and, a considerate man, he pretended he hadn't observed her misery. He continued on, searching through his satchel for another package. This was also cloaked in brown paper, with string and several intricate knots as a precaution against anyone peeking.

"My client made many preparatory sketches of you. Normally, he keeps them when the contract is finished, but in this instance, he felt that you would like to have them."

He pushed the packet toward her, and she glanced at him, wondering if he had any inkling of what was shielded behind the innocuous wrapping, but he innocently matched her stare. If he had any intimation, he was too experienced, and too well bred, to show it.

"Thank you, again."

"You're welcome. Now then"—he leafed through his papers as though doing a last check for errors—"I have a proposal to present to you."

"A proposal?"

"Well,
proposal
might not be the most applicable term. You see, Mr. Cristofore has recently come into a substantial amount of money."

"He has?"

How could Gabriel have stumbled upon a fortune? If he'd secured a patron as Mary had suggested, a benefactor wouldn't have showered him with unearned cash. By what other method could he have garnered any? She fervently prayed that he hadn't stolen or swindled it!

"From what source?" she hesitantly inquired.

"He did not choose to apprise me of the ... ah ..." —he cleared his throat—"particulars surrounding the acquisition of the funds, but he advises me that you are cognizant of the derivation, so therefore no accounting is necessary."

The way he vacillated and enunciated
particulars
made her suppose that he was totally sentient from whence it emanated, or that he recognized it was of dubious origin and, due to his confidential post, he could never acknowledge it.

"
I
am aware of the source?”

"So he claims. Purportedly, the two of you discussed it thoroughly during your final quarrel."

Every aspect of that decisive, grotesque argument flitted past, but the only financial topic they'd addressed was the bribe her father had tendered for him to...

She froze.

Mr. Thumberton studied her. "You
do
recall that to which he alludes."

"I do." She trod cautiously, feeling as though she was tiptoeing across a murky bog where the slightest misstep could send her tumbling into the muddy ooze lurking below.
  
.

"Mr. Cristofore has transferred his fortune to you."

'To me?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"All of it."

"I don't want it!"

Disgusted, afflicted, she fumed. Wasn't this precisely the sort of high-handed maneuver on which the bounder thrived! At which he excelled! Well, she'd show the presumptuous villain a thing or two about pride! About contempt and self-respect! "I won't accept so much as a farthing, and you can hie yourself back to London and tell him I said so."

"Mr. Cristofore mentioned that a refusal might be your response," he calmly clarified, ignoring her outburst.

"Oh, he did, did he?" she asked hotly.

"But the cash is already yours."

"What? How could that be?"

"It's been placed into a trust."

"Well, I don't agree to it!"

He spun the papers around so that she could see the legal heading, and there it was, bold as brass:
Trust Document.

"Mr. Cristofore wanted the matter accomplished as fast as possible, so I've taken the liberty of having an associate of mine at the Bank of London named as trustee."

She frowned at the document, while she rapped her nails on the arm of the chair. "Would you mind explaining what this trust means?"

"It
means
that you have suddenly become a very wealthy woman."

She eyed him incredulously. "How wealthy?"

He indicated an offensively large number at the bottom of the page, and she gasped.

"You now have a substantial income, with the resources to go where you want and to do what you want. You won't have access to the capital, but you'll be provided with a steady income, and your trustee will assuredly allow sufficient extras for permissible expenses. A modest house, certainly. Clothing. Food. A few servants. Nothing as illustrious as all this"—he gestured around the elegant parlor—"but definitely naught to sneeze at.
 
If you are deliberate with your spending, you'll have more than enough to support yourself through a long and comfortable life."

A home of her own! A stipend! With no worries about the future and how she'd survive it! Everything she'd ever craved was being dangled before her.

Drat that Gabriel! He knew her secret dreams, and thus, he comprehended how difficult it would be for her to rebuff his generosity. She need only murmur me word
yes,
and she would be free. Free from her father. From Charlotte. From the confines of her monotony and tedium.

Apparently, Mr. Thumberton was adept at reading minds, or perhaps Gabriel had versed him on her weakest points, because he went in for the kill. "Lady Elizabeth," he gently prodded, "may I be frank?"

"Aye."

"I haven't been informed of what transpired between you and Mr. Cristofore to cause your... your rift, but it appears that hurt feelings remain. Perchance, some pride is involved. Some lingering hostility, as well. Am I correct?"

"I might concede that you are," she griped petulantly.

"Well, milady, I'm an old man who's seen much." He sat back and sighed. "Over the years, I've found it advantageous not to interfere in one's personal affairs, and I typically let others fumble toward their own resolutions, but in this case, I feel it's inherent that I speak my piece."

Crossly, she probed, "What is it you would say?"

"Don't be a fool."

Insulted, she stiffened. "I'm not being foolish. I just don't want anything from him." Which was false. If only she could discern that he forgave her, that this wasn't merely some bit of callous commerce, his tidying up of his studio! "Did he send me a letter? Anything at all as to why he's doing this?'

"No, he didn't" She was crushed, and he reached out and patted her hand in a fatherly fashion. "But his stepmother, Mrs. Preston, slipped a note into my bag for you."

He gave it to her, and its presence made her realize how isolated she'd been since leaving London, how inconsolable and detached.

A note from Mary! Oddly, she felt as if she'd been stranded on a desert island and the tantalizing missive had floated up in a bottle! She was starved for news, but she kept her eagerness at bay, laying the letter on her lap, saving it for later enjoyment.

"How kind of her," she politely said. "What did she think of Mr. Cristofore's decision?"

"She and I didn't talk about it"

"Does she know what he intends?"

"I have no idea."

"She'd probably tell him he's daft."

"No doubt" Mr. Thumberton acceded with a laugh. "I have to confess that when he unveiled his plans to me, I wasn't overly enthused, myself."

"Really?"

'To be blunt, milady, I tried to dissuade him. It's such an enormous sum, and I felt his own circumstances could have benefited." He gesticulated dramatically." 'At least'— I counseled him—'keep part of it.’ "

"What was his reply?"

"He told me—and I'm quoting—'Lady Elizabeth needs it much more than I ever would.' "

"I see."

Her musings were so conflicted. What was best? Should she acquiesce in Gabriel's scheme? To vainly repel his largess would be downright silly.

Her confusion must have been obvious, because Mr. Thumberton interjected, "You need to separate him, and whatever sin he's committed, from the overture he's making and the result that will entail."

"But why is he making it? That's what I can't figure out."

"Does it matter why?"

Did it? In the grand design of things, did it signify if his gift was an obdurate termination of their contract? After all, their
amour
had been over for months. What had she expected? That absence would cause him to decide he loved her? That he might miss her so much he'd rush to Norwich and beg her pardon?

Ludicrous! Comical! She blushed at her wild fantasies.

"Milady, this is a fortune," he said fervently. "Don't let arrogance or temper keep you from grabbing for it. The bequest will change your life forever."

"But do I want it to be changed in this way? That's the question."

"Only you can answer it," he asserted, "but if I might pose one last suggestion?"

"What?"

"If you were my daughter"—conspiratorially, he bent nearer—"I'd tell you to take it and run. Fast as you can!"

She chuckled. "You would, would you?"

“Absolutely. You'd be crazy not to."

"I suppose I would."

With no further rumination or debate, she signed her name on the bottom line. He reviewed some of the important contractual language, the oddest being that she couldn't ever reveal to anyone the source of the funds. That prohibition was to be the only crucial stipulation. Other than that, and the fact that her trustee would oversee disbursement, the boon was hers.

With satchel tucked under his arm, he departed a short while later, though she'd encouraged him to spend the night in the rambling mansion. She'd have welcomed a guest at supper, for she'd have had the excuse to grill him for details about Gabriel. Where was he? What was he doing with himself? Was there any news about Mary and John Preston?

Citing a pressing schedule, the solicitor hadn't given her an opening to delve into concerns he likely wouldn't or couldn't divulge, and he'd chosen to avoid any unpleasantness by returning to town.

After he'd gone, the parlor seemed awfully quiet.

She perused the trust documents, then tossed them on the table, surprised to discover that they furnished none of the exultation or excitement she might have inferred would come with such an inheritance. If anything, she was more dolorous than ever.

An independent woman! Who possessed the wherewithal to live in any self-reliant manner she chose.

The notion was so depressing!

Her every wish had been granted. Her every dream fulfilled. What more could she possibly desire? What would it take to truly make her happy?

Gabriel,
a soft voice whispered.

What good was excessive wealth if all it rendered was an empty house, where she would rattle around the vacuous halls? Was her destiny naught more than that of a lonely, eccentric spinster?

How gloomy! How discouraging!

Needing to occupy herself, she went to the portrait and ripped away the paper. On viewing the finished product, her rush of sentiment was so staggering that her legs were shaky and, requiring support, she fell into a chair.