Scandalous (39 page)

Sometimes she wondered, in passing, if she would have been killed if she had not agreed.

Nick was dead, only no one knew it. Everyone, her sisters, her aunt, the servants, everyone except Jem, thought she mourned so for her brother Marcus, with whom, in the court of popular opinion, she had been convicted of conducting an illicit love affair. It would have been almost funny, if in the aftermath of Nick's death she had not felt so terribly forlorn.

She could not share the depth of her loss, or the degree of her pain, with those she loved best. So she walked the moors alone, and grieved.

"Miss Gabby, it'll be gettin' dark soon. You need to come back to the house now."

Gabby looked over her shoulder, and smiled at Jem. He was worried about her, she knew. His voice was gentle whenever he spoke to her now, and his eyes when he looked at her had an almost grim expression that she had seen in them only once before, right after she had broken her leg and it had become apparent that it was not going to heal properly. He had taken to following her about, too; not that he let her see him, much, but whenever she was out close to dark, or near a bog or some other potentially treacherous place, he always seemed to turn up. She knew what he was doing, and appreciated his care of her.

Claire and Beth were worried about her, too. Gabby knew it, and tried her best to act as if she were in reasonable spirits while in their company. They mourned the man they had known as Marcus, too, but not like she did.

She didn't grieve for a charming but only recently met brother. She grieved for the man she loved.

At the time, she had thought the funeral was a nightmare. Nearly a thousand people had turned up in Westminster Abbey to pay their last respects, or to gawk and gossip, she hadn't been able to decide which. And she hadn't cared.

Now she knew that the real nightmare was living on after the funeral. Her world had turned to ashes and was peopled by shadows; she felt as though something inside her had broken— her heart, perhaps? —and would never again be whole.

And no one knew.

"I don't know about you, but I'm gettin' cold."

Gabby turned, summoned a smile for Jem, and, walking at the old man's side, headed back toward the house. A brisk wind carried the scent of gorse on it. The setting sun was reflected in the lake near the house. Hawthorne Hall itself brooded against the skyline, looking as dark and gloomy on the outside as she felt inside.

She walked up the shallow front steps and let herself into the house. Jem was behind her, but he headed off for the kitchen as soon as they were inside. Claire and Beth heard her enter and came out into the hall as she was taking off her cloak and gloves. They had been together in the front salon, watching for her, she guessed. A fire blazed in the hearth.

"You look frozen," Beth said in a falsely cheerful tone as Gabby hung her cloak on the clothes tree near the door and laid her gloves on the big round table in the center of the hall. Beth took Gabby's hand and drew her in toward the fire. When they reached it, Gabby gave her sister's fingers a squeeze and stretched her cold hands out to the blaze. The truth was, no matter how many fires were built or how large they were, Gabby never seemed to get truly warm anymore. "You shouldn't stay out so long."

"You're getting way too thin, Gabby." Claire, who had followed them into the salon, looked Gabby up and down with concern. They were all wearing black again, for their purported brother. Gabby knew she looked like a wraith in her slim, long-sleeved gown, but she didn't care.

She didn't care about anything anymore. No, that was wrong. She did care about her sisters. For them, she managed to summon up a smile.

"Did you finish bundling all your old clothes up for charity?" Gabby asked with an assumption of briskness. She would not, if she could help it, wear down Claire and Beth's spirits by letting them see how low were her own.

"What makes you think charity wants them?" Beth asked starkly. "They're the veriest rags."

They all laughed a little at that. Claire moved over to the window.

"You know," she said, picking up a handful of silk curtain and holding it up to the meager light that still filtered through the glass. "These are dry-rotted. Perhaps we should take them down, and contribute them, too."

"Lady Maud specifically instructed us to remove only our personal belongings from the house, remember?" Gabby said dryly. "I think we'd better leave the curtains right where they are. Next thing you know, she'll be accusing us of theft."

"Someone's coming." Claire had dropped the curtain and was looking out the window with interest. Gabby and Beth went to join her. Visitors at Hawthorne Hall were sufficiently rare as to render them all wide-eyed with curiosity.

The dying light made it impossible to see anything but the barest outline of a closed carriage drawn by a pair of horses with a lone driver on the box.

"You don't suppose Cousin Thomas has come early, do you?" Beth asked, putting into words the truly appalling thought that had occurred to them all. The carriage slowed in front of the house, and they all watched the driver pull up his horses. Then the carriage door opened.

"It's a single gentleman," Claire said, frowning, as they watched the silhouetted figure step down. She glanced around at her sisters. "Who could it be, do you suppose?"

"Let's go find out."

By mutual consent, they went into the hall. Gabby and Claire were not as quick as Beth. They had barely reached the entryway when Beth pulled opened the door.

The man walked up the outside steps in a leisurely way, quite as if he owned the place. He was wearing a many-caped greatcoat with a curly-brimmed beaver pulled down well over his eyes, and the setting sun was behind him, so it was impossible to make sure of anything except that he was tall.

But something about the way he moved…

Gabby stared. Then as he stepped up into the hall, into the light, her heart started to pound.

"Nick." At first she merely whispered it as her shaking hands rose to press against her breast. Then, on a glad cry,
"Nick!"

Even before he took off his hat she started to run.

Gasping, crying, laughing, all at the same time, she threw herself into his arms. They closed around her, sweeping her off her feet, crushing the breath from her lungs, swinging her around in a wide circle before setting her back on her feet again.

She looked up into the twinkling blue eyes she'd thought she would never in this life see again, and felt suddenly faint.

"Nick," she croaked, locking her arms around his neck. Then he bent his head and kissed her.

It was a long kiss, a fervent kiss, a kiss between lovers, and when he lifted his head at last Gabby was not surprised to discover Claire and Beth staring at them agog. Still wrapped in his arms, she looked around at them, but before she could say anything, or indeed, think of anything to say, Nick spoke.

"Claire, Beth, as you will have no doubt guessed by now, I am
not
your brother, so you can stop looking at your sister and me like that. My name is Nick Devane."

"Thank goodness," Claire said devoutly, closing her mouth. Beth nodded fervent agreement. Then they both rushed toward him. Keeping one arm around Gabby all the while, he hugged each of them in turn. Then he looked down at Gabby again. She was leaning against him, with both arms wrapped tightly around his waist. She couldn't seem to look away from him, and knew she was smiling idiotically as her gaze drank in his face. Happiness bubbled up inside her, a wonderful radiant happiness that warmed her down to her previously icy little toes. Miracle of miracles, Nick
wasn't
dead. He had come back to her.

Nick kissed her again, not as thoroughly as before but still quite thoroughly enough. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung, and kissed him back.

When he lifted his head at last, he was smiling. She smiled back at him dreamily, still clinging to his neck, not one whit bothered by the interested audience of her sisters. She felt like she had just awakened from a long and terrible nightmare….

"I take it you've missed me," he said in a husky tone, and at last got around, with a backward kick of his boot, to closing the door, which had been permitting chilly bursts of air to swirl around them all.

Gabby blinked at him. Now that she was sure he was real, not a ghost or a figment of her grief-disordered imagination or even hot air and moonbeams, she was beginning to get her bearings again.

"Missed
you?" she asked incredulously as his question sank in. Anger began to simmer inside her. "You low-down dirty rotten
scoundrel,
I thought you were dead."

She shoved furiously at his shoulders, and whisked herself out of his arms.

He smiled at her. "Gabriella…"

"Do you have any idea what I've been going through?" She was raging now. Her heart pounded, and she could feel hot blood staining her face. "I thought you were
dead."

"I'm sorry, I…"

"You're sorry." She yelled the words at him, so angry now she was practically vibrating with it. A red tide of rage floated before her eyes. Her breathing quickened. Her chest heaved. Claire and Beth, still fascinated spectators, instinctively backed up out of the way as Gabby glanced around. A small, leather-bound book lay on the table near her gloves, and Gabby snatched it up and hurled it at him. He dodged behind a chair, grinning, and the book slammed harmlessly into a wall behind him. "You're
sorry.
Oh, is that supposed to make it all right? I went to your
funeral."

A leather card case was next. Nick dodged again, grinning, then started to work his way toward her, avoiding missiles and keeping various pieces of furniture between them as he came.

45

"I couldn't help it," Nick protested, ducking a well-aimed candle snuffer. "Gabriella, listen a moment."

Gabby's roving gaze spied Barnet, newly come on the scene with Jem and Mrs. Bucknell and Stivers and Twindle and a host of other servants drawn by the noise.

"And you." She pointed a shaking finger at Barnet. "You let me think he was dead. No, you flat out told me he was dead. You brought a government official to see me. You came to his funeral and you
cried."

Barnet shrank back inside the doorway from which he had just emerged. "Orders, miss," he said feebly, looking scared.

"Orders!" Gabby screeched, looking around for something else to hurl.

"Now, don't start throwing things at Barnet," Nick chided, having almost reached her by this time. "He's Sergeant George Barnet, by the way, who used to be my batman, and he
was
following orders. For that matter, so was I."

He reached her then, in a quick lunge, and grabbed her arms. Gabby glared up at him.

"How could you do that to me? Do you know what it's been like? I thought you were dead."

At that she burst into noisy tears that hurt her throat and stung her eyes. Nick's grin vanished. He looked down at her with sudden compunction, then without another word scooped her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing at all.

She had almost forgotten how strong he was.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder and wept as if her heart would break.

"Gabriella, shh. I'm sorry," he said in her ear. This time he sounded as if he meant it. Then, as she continued to sob and gasp uncontrollably, he added to the room at large, "I think we need some privacy here. A study or something where we can sit and talk. A room where there's a fire."

She was shivering uncontrollably in his arms.

"Bring her this way, Captain." The speaker was Jem, and the tone was only faintly grudging. As Nick carried her along the hall, Gabby glanced up to find Jem holding the door to the office open for them. Then another fit of sobbing racked her— she didn't seem to be able to control them at all— and she buried her face in his neck again, wetting his coat with her tears.

"Thank you, Jem," Nick said.

Jem's reply was heartfelt. "I never thought I'd live to say this, Captain, but I sure am glad to see you. I've never seen Miss Gabby in a state like she's been."

Gabby felt Nick's answering nod. Then he carried her into the office. Gabby heard the door shut behind them. A moment later he sat down in front of the fire with her in his lap.

"Gabriella." He kissed the side of her jaw. His lips were warm; his whiskers were scratchy. Perversely, the familiar sensations made her sob harder. "Sweetheart, don't cry. Please. I'm sorry. They had to make it look like I was dead. I knew they were going to do it sooner or later, I just didn't expect it to be right then. The assassin was fake; he was one of my men. He hit me with a bladder full of pig's blood. Barnet pressed a pressure point on my neck and put me out like a light. The rest was acting."

"You let me think you were dead!"

"I may catch spies, but I'm still a soldier. My orders were not to tell anyone, not even you. I had no choice. I came as quickly as I could." He slid his mouth along her jawline to her ear, and added persuasively, "I really couldn't keep pretending I was the earl of Wickham for the rest of my life, you know. If I did that, how could I ever ask you to marry me?"

That, not unnaturally, made Gabby quit crying and sit up. She sniffled a few times and scrubbed at her wet cheeks with her hands. Then she looked at him with a suspicious expression that made him smile.

"Are
you asking me to marry you?"

"Yes, I am."

She frowned at him. "I don't want to marry a soldier."

His smile widened. "You're in luck. I just sold out. Barnet, too, actually."

Her frown turned into a scowl. "Then how, pray, do you propose to support a family?"

His eyes twinkled at her. "This would probably be a good time to tell you that I'm a very rich man. I propose to buy a property— you can pick it out if you like— and move you and your sisters and any of the servants who care to come with us into it. I haven't had a home in a long while; I think it's time I had one again."