A Perfect Gentleman Page 6

  Graeme jerked back. “I don’t normally. Get into fights, I mean.”

  She released his chin, looking a little surprised and something else. . . . Was that chagrin in her eyes? And what did that mean?

  “Naturally.” Her voice was bright and faintly brittle. She turned away to pick up the bottle of iodine and splash it on the cloth. “What was this all about? Who hit you?”

  She held the iodine-soaked rag to the cut on his brow.

  “Well, um . . .” He felt a flush spreading up his neck. “Actually, ah . . . it was Prescott.”

  She stared at him. “David?”

  “Yes.” His embarrassment was replaced by irritation. “Your good friend David.”

  “David hit you?” she said, as if she could not take it in. “Why? What did you do?”

  “I don’t know why you should suppose it was I who started it.”

  “Don’t turn all lordly,” she told him, folding her arms. “I don’t know you, but I do know David Prescott. He isn’t the sort to go about hitting people without reason.”

  Graeme would have liked to argue, but it struck him how utterly, irredeemably foolish he was being. He had not set out to call on Abigail, but he knew why his steps had turned without volition to the Langham. Whether Prescott was right in saying Abigail was innocent of her father’s scheme, Graeme was duty-bound to admit his own fault in the matter. Arguing with her over David Prescott was not going to accomplish that.

  He straightened his shoulders. “It was not without reason. I—Mr. Prescott took me to task for my behavior after our wedding. I am sorry for what I said to you and how I acted. I did not behave as a gentleman should, and I must beg your pardon.”

  chapter 6

  Abigail gaped at him. If Graeme’s intent had been to render her speechless, he had certainly accomplished it. She wasn’t sure what she had expected from him when she saw him dawdling in front of the hotel this evening. Her first thought had been only a swift concern that he had been hurt. The last thing that would have occurred to her was that he had come to offer her an apology.

  It was not precisely the apology she would have hoped for. His words had been as stiff as his posture, and there had been more regret over his failure to act as a gentleman than there had been over hurting her. Still, it was the first time he had ever unbent toward her, and Abigail felt a tender shoot of warmth start to uncurl in her chest.

  Graeme continued. “I was angry and . . . frustrated at my own powerlessness in the situation. But that is no excuse. However I felt, whatever had happened, I should not have been so blunt or unkind, so lacking in courtesy to a young woman—especially one whom I had just sworn to protect.”

  So he was not saying he had been wrong about her.

  “I should have handled it differently. I should have made arrangements for us to live separately without exposing you to gossip.”

  Not that he regretted parting from her.

  “I see.” Abby stepped back, tossing the cloth onto a table. “Arrangements—like hiding me away in some manor house in the country where I wouldn’t be seen. Where I would be no embarrassment to you.” She flashed him a smile so bright it was a weapon. “No, thank you. I prefer the life I have.”

  He frowned. “I didn’t mean—you weren’t—”

  A knock on the door interrupted whatever explanation he was scrabbling for. Abigail seized the opportunity to turn away from Graeme and opened the door. A footman entered, carrying the ice and the brandy she had ordered, and set the tray down on the table next to the bottle of antiseptic.

  After his departure, the room was heavy with silence. Abby focused on bundling the ice into a towel and tying its corners together, then thrust it at Graeme. “Here, hold this against your cheek; it will reduce the swelling. Brandy?”

  “What? No, I—it doesn’t matter. What I was trying to say . . .”

  She poured him a glass despite his words and handed that to him, as well. Crossing her arms across her chest, she regarded him steadily. “Please, you need not apologize further. I am aware of your normally impeccable courtesy. But at least you were honest in stating your feelings and your intentions toward me, which was an improvement over the fortune hunters to whom I was accustomed. Indeed, honesty was not a commodity I encountered with my father, either. It was a new experience. So what you said stunned me a bit.”

  Graeme started to speak, but she forestalled him, raising her hand. “No, please, hear me out. What happened that evening, what you said was . . .” She drew a little breath, hoping he could not hear the shakiness in it. “It was good. It forced me to face reality. I realized that my life would be whatever I could make of it. I could not while away my time, waiting for a fairy-tale prince to ride in and rescue me. I had to take charge of myself and of my future.”

  “A lady should not have to do so.”

  “She must if she is to be her own person. I’m glad I built a life free and independent from the rule of a man. I am my own woman, and I’m happy to be so. Proud. I don’t need a husband. And I don’t need your apology.”

  Graeme set the glass of brandy down on the table with a thud. “Well, you have it, anyway. You also have a husband, however much you choose to act as if you did not. And as your husband, what you do concerns me. You’re Lady Montclair now, not Abigail Price, and—”

  Abigail managed an imitation of laughter, saying lightly, “Is that why you are so alarmed about my presence in London? You’re afraid I’ll do something in my boorish American way that will embarrass you?”

  “I didn’t say that. Stop putting words in my mouth.”

  “You needn’t worry. I am aware of which fork to use. I bought my clothes in Paris last month, so I shan’t look provincial. I am careful not to wear more diamonds than British ladies. Perhaps the people who invite me to their parties do so in hopes of obtaining gossip. Perhaps the aristocracy all laugh at me behind my back. You would know about that better than I, since you are one of them. But if they do, they won’t blame you for my failings. They’ll pity you for your misfortune.”

  Abigail shrugged, as if none of this mattered. It was true that the English nobility’s barely concealed disdain no longer burned. It had been foolish to let it bother her so much ten years ago. “But none of them will dare snub me. They’re hopeful that through my connections they can sell their sons to American heiresses.”

  Graeme’s lips tightened, and she saw that her barb had found its home. “I realize that you hold me in contempt for marrying you as I did.”

  “No,” Abigail replied honestly. “I thought you were rather noble, actually, for making the sacrifice. Saving your family estate and all that.” She made a self-deprecating moue. “I was hopelessly romantic then, as only an eighteen-year-old girl can be.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You knew, then . . .”

  “That you did not love me? Yes, of course. I wasn’t so deluded as to believe you married me for anything other than my father’s money. However, I was not aware that you had already pledged your heart to another woman. I didn’t realize you were giving up all hope of happiness.” It was difficult to keep her smile from wobbling, but she managed it. “I would not have agreed to my father’s wishes if I had known how you felt.”

  Graeme studied her for a long moment, then offered a ghost of a smile. “I must be thankful that you did not, or I would have truly been in the basket.”

  Abigail relaxed, and her answering smile was, for the first time, natural. She saw that he still held the small bundle of ice in his hand, and she stepped forward, taking it from him. “Here, you better put this on, or you’ll be even more sore tomorrow.”

  She moved in closer, raising it to gently lay it against his split lip. He reached up, his hand covering hers, and for a long, breathless moment, they stood that way, her eyes unwaveringly on his. Then a soft noise came from behind him, and Abigail quickly pulled back her hand, turning toward the door. A square envelope like the one she had found the other night lay on the floor. Someone had
slid it beneath her door.

  Graeme went to pick up the envelope. Abigail hurried after him, and as he turned to hand it to her, she almost snatched it from his hand. He looked startled, but she ignored him, rushing to open the door. She stepped out into the hall and peered up and down the corridor. There was no one. She turned back and found Graeme watching her.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “What? Oh.” She glanced down at the envelope. The writing on the front was the same. She forced a little laugh. “No. Just another invitation, I’m sure.” She crossed to the small spindly-legged desk and slid the missive into the shallow drawer. In this moment of tenuous truce between them, the last thing she wanted was to introduce a mysterious note purporting to offer her the “truth” about their marriage. “Well . . .”

  “Yes. Um . . .” He glanced around vaguely. Silence stretched between them. “I’m glad everything is straight between us now.”

  “Is it?” Abigail asked lightly. She wasn’t sure why she continued to tease him, like a child who wanted to provoke a response, any response, to get one’s notice.

  “Thank you . . . for, um . . .” He waggled the bundle of ice, then set it down on the table.

  “You’re welcome. But perhaps you should keep it.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” He picked it up again. “I suppose I couldn’t look any more foolish than I already do. And thank you for the brandy.”

  “You didn’t even have any.”

  “That’s true.” He picked up the glass and downed it.

  Abigail laughed. “I didn’t mean that you must.”

  He shrugged. “Mustn’t let good brandy go to waste.” He paused again. “I should go now. You were most kind to tend to my wounds. I’m sorry for making a shambles of your evening.”

  “I didn’t mind.”

  “Well . . .” He nodded to her. “Good-bye, then. I suppose I won’t see you again.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” She smiled and sailed over to open the door. “Good night.”

  He hesitated, the frown returning, and she thought for a moment he was going to question her statement, but he only sketched a bow to her and strode from the room.

  Abigail closed the door, leaning back against it. Her knees were suddenly trembling and her heart pounding. Silly to fall to pieces now she had gotten through the scene relatively unscathed. She had concealed her alarm at his bruised and bloody state; it would not do to let him glimpse any weakness. She had managed to keep her manner light and dispassionate even after he began to talk about their wedding night.

  He couldn’t have guessed from her tone how crushed she had been at his rejection, how she had crawled into a hiding hole like a wounded animal. It was the impression she must give him; indeed, it was what she must feel. What she wanted would not work unless she could remain free of emotion.

  It had surprised her a bit to feel the old pain and anger welling up in her as she talked. She had believed herself rid of them years ago. But she didn’t think her resentment had showed through her words . . . or at least only a little. She had meant to prick his pride with that remark about the nobility selling their sons to American heiresses. Abigail smiled to herself. No doubt it was wicked to feel satisfaction at the expression on his face.

  All in all, it had worked out well. Graeme had come to her. He had apologized. She had handled it with apparent sangfroid . . . at least until that blasted note had been shoved under the door. The way she had snatched the letter from him had not been calm and controlled.

  Abigail went to the dainty desk and pulled the envelope out of the drawer. Opening it, she read,

  If you want to know the truth about your marriage, come to the corner of Pinksey Lane and Harburton at the old wall. Nine tomorrow evening. Come alone or you will learn nothing.

  It was absurd. Like something from a melodrama. She knew the truth about her marriage. Didn’t she? What more could there be than that her husband loved another and hated having to marry Abigail instead? What could be worse than knowing her father had been the cause of Graeme’s financial dilemma?

  Still . . . what if there was more? How could she walk away and not find out if there was?

  Stepping into her slippers, she hurried down the corridor and, eschewing the slower lift, trotted down the stairs. The clerk behind the imposing mahogany counter smiled ingratiatingly at her approach.

  “Lady Montclair. May I help you? I trust there isn’t a problem.”

  “No, no problem. But I hope you can help me.” She held up the envelope for him to see. “This note was pushed under my door. Did you receive this letter? Did one of your employers bring it up?”

  “Under your door?” The clerk looked horrified. “Oh, no, my lady, I assure you. We would never leave a letter for you like that. If a message for you was brought to me, I would have put it in the box for your room.” He gestured toward the set of cubbyholes behind him. “If someone had handed it to one of the other employees, he would have brought it to me. Even if one of them had taken it upon himself to deliver it to you”—his frown did not bode well for such impertinence from an employee—“he would have knocked and given it to you, not shoved it beneath your door. I will question the employees, but I doubt it was brought by any of them.”

  Even if they had done so, Abigail thought, none of them would be likely to confess it, given the desk clerk’s thunderous look. She nodded. “Thank you.”

  “I do hope the note did not upset you,” he went on anxiously. “I assure you we keep a careful eye on any strangers who come in our lobby. The Langham has a reputation for—”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Don’t worry. I’m not upset. I simply wanted to find out who had brought it. There was no name on it, you see.”

  “Most irregular.” The clerk seemed put out by the sender’s breach of etiquette. “I will question everyone thoroughly, I promise you, and if any of them saw a person enter with the letter, I will bring him to you to question.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.” Abigail turned away. She had little hope of learning anything from the man’s underlings. She stood for a moment, thinking, then strode outside. The doorman pulled the door open for her with a grand gesture.

  “I wondered if perhaps you had seen someone enter the hotel tonight carrying an envelope like this?” Abigail smiled encouragingly at him. The doorman would see everyone who came through.

  “An envelope?” He looked doubtfully at the item in question. “No, ma’am, I can’t say as I have. This evening?”

  “Yes, just a few minutes ago, in fact.”

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am. There have been people in and out the last hour, but I didn’t see one carrying a letter. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. Do you know where the corner of Pinksey Lane and Harburton is? It’s by an old wall.”

  “Well, that’d be the old city wall.” He frowned, thinking. “I’m not sure exactly where Pinksey Lane is. But I know Harburton, and that’s not an area a lady would have anything to do with.”

  “Mm. I don’t know that it’s supposed to be a lady’s sort of place.” She started to leave, then turned back. “Please have a hansom waiting for me here tomorrow night. A little before nine?”

  “My lady!” His eyes widened in alarm. “You’re not thinking of going there! It wouldn’t be safe. Really. That’s not a place you should go.”

  “I am sure I’ll be fine. Just have the carriage here. Thank you.”

  In truth, she was a good deal less than sure that it would be either safe or wise to keep the mysterious appointment. But she knew that she could not stay away, either. She would always wonder about it and wish she had found out this “truth,” whatever it was.

  She thought about asking David Prescott to accompany her. But the note had said to come alone, so she feared a companion would frighten the letter-writer away. Besides, she didn’t want anyone, even a friend, to know some horrible fact about her marriage, if it did indeed turn out that the man had viable information to
offer.

  The invitation sounded to her as if the fellow was after money in exchange for his information. This would no doubt be a preliminary meeting to establish good faith on both sides. He would tell her something to indicate that he had information worth selling, and they would haggle over price. The man would have no reason to harm her; in fact, he’d have every reason to keep her safe, at least until she could get the money he wanted.

  There was more she could do to protect herself. She’d take that handy little weapon Mrs. Carson had given her when she had started visiting the settlement home. It, too, had been in a disreputable part of town and even with her coachman taking her there, the founder of the settlement home had insisted she have a weapon on her person, as well. Abby had never had to use it, but she was certain she could if need be. And she would have the driver of the carriage wait for her discreetly down the block so that she could leave quickly.

  It would be perfectly safe.

  Abigail was less inclined to feel that way the following evening when the hansom she was riding in turned down ever narrower and seedier streets. She had dressed in her plainest brown dress, without a bustle and with only one petticoat, and despite the mild summer evening, she had pulled on a hooded cloak, which hid her entire body from top to bottom. Tall as she was and with her skirts melting into the shadows, perhaps any watcher would assume she was a man.

  But, peeking around the curtain in the window, she wondered if even a man was in danger of attack here. The best thing that could be said about the place was that it seemed largely made up of small shops and was deserted at this time of night.

  The carriage rolled to a stop, and the driver turned around to say, “ ’Ere you are, miss. You said to stop before I got to it. Pinksey Lane’s that little lane ahead.”

  He pointed with his whip, and Abigail peered down the dark street. At least a hundred feet away, there was a small break in the buildings—an alley more than a lane, she would have said. It was almost black outside, the nearest gaslight some distance behind them. The buildings rising around them cut out all trace of moonlight, and the scene was made even eerier by the drifting wisps of fog.