by the glimpses of humanity she had shown him—her flashing smiles, her laughter, her helpless giggles when she completely bungled their duet. And he had been oddly disturbed by that finger-touching incident. It was absurd enough to be embarrassing that that incident alone had kept him awake for at least an hour after he lay down last night. It was not, after all, as though he had stolen a kiss or fondled her in inappropriate places.
He had touched her finger, and for a few moments—not even long enough to allow him to catch the thought that had flitted into his mind and on out again—he had come close to understanding what romance was.
And perhaps what lay beyond romance.
Would she be at Vauxhall? Would Rochford? Gabriel’s jaw tightened. That man, his second cousin once removed, was ambitious as well as conceited. His behavior was larded with false charm. Conceited men were often merely shallow, with nothing specifically vicious about them. Anthony Rochford was a malicious liar. And like a true coward, last night he had directed his malice at a man he supposed dead and unable to speak up for himself.
Well enough, he had said when Lady Estelle had asked him if he had known Gabriel Rochford. He was a likable boy. I was fond of him. It grieved me to see his wildness turn into vice.
Yet Anthony Rochford had never met him until very recently. Gabriel Rochford’s behavior had always been as far from wild as north is from south. Any hard edges he had now were acquired in America. He remembered his boyhood self as quiet, studious, rather dull, too plagued by conscience and concern for the feelings of others to get into any real mischief. He had been his father’s son, in other words. His first nine years had shaped his character and sensibilities.
He was a likable boy. Not only had Anthony Rochford never come to Brierley with his father while Gabriel was there, but he was also eight or nine years younger than Gabriel. He would have been only ten or eleven years old when Gabriel went to America.
There were two things he must do without further delay, Gabriel decided. He must marry Lady Jessica Archer—if she would have him. But first he must make a journey. It was time to take some action—almost seven years later than he ought.
He would accept the invitation to Vauxhall. It would probably be an enjoyable evening even if Lady Jessica was not of the party. He had heard that Vauxhall was a place one must see when one was in London. But he hoped she would be there. He could no longer indulge in social activities for the mere pleasure of them—not that he had done so from the beginning, of course. But he must develop a stronger sense of purpose.
He had arranged to spend the morning with Bertie Vickers. They were going to spar at Jackson’s boxing saloon. Bertie was not an early riser, however. The breakfast things having been removed from the table, Gabriel sat down to write a letter to Simon Norton with instructions not to leave the estate. He would take care of further investigation himself. He wrote also to Miles Perrott, his partner in Boston, thrusting aside the wave of homesickness that threatened to engulf him as he did so. Boston was no longer home. It was regrettable, but he might as well grow accustomed to the new reality. He informed Miles that he would not be returning, at least not in the foreseeable future. He also wrote an acceptance of the invitation to Vauxhall.
This afternoon there was a garden party to which he had promised to escort Lady Vickers since both Sir Trevor and Bertie had other commitments. He would keep his promise.
Would Lady Jessica be there?
There was a long-stemmed pink rose beside Jessica’s breakfast plate again. Beneath it, resting on her linen napkin, was a card that was a little different from usual. It had two words instead of one. Gabriel Thorne, he had written in the bold black handwriting she had come to recognize as his. The rose too was a little different. It was a darker shade of pink, very like the color of the ball gown she had worn to the Parley ball. She picked it up and held it to her nose for a few moments before taking her seat and nodding to the butler when he came to pour her coffee.
“Good morning, Jess,” Avery said, lowering his paper