Chapter Thirty

Gabriel leaned against the wall.

The scene was familiar. It had haunted so many days and nights.

He wanted to feel satisfaction. He did not.

Then men pushed inside. Stanhope’s hand was still around the pistol. His eyes were open and appeared to be staring.

One man, obviously in charge, stepped forward, “Wha’ ’appened ’ere?”

“His lordship shot hisself,” a footman, a long shirt hanging outside his trousers, said in awe.

The man who had asked the question looked at Gabriel. Gabriel nodded.

“A young lord said someone planned to kill Lord Stanhope,” the policeman said.

“I told him that,” Gabriel said. “But Stanhope tried to kill me, and I wanted to stop him from escaping. It seemed simpler to say he was in danger than to try to explain.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Manchester. The Marquess of Manchester.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I heard of you.”

“I am sure you have,” Gabriel said, aware of the hollow-ness in his voice. “Excuse me but I must sit down.”

He stumbled to one of the chairs. He’d been wounded before during a sea battle. He knew there was a period during which pure energy or excitement kept a wounded man going, and then …

“Sir?”

Voices began to fade.

“My God, he has been shot.”

“Call a physician.”

“Help lay ’im down.”

His eyes started to close, and he suddenly smelled an aroma he remembered. Loved.

Loved.

A cool hand touched him. He tried to force his eyes open, but they could … could … quite …

He felt someone lift him, and then his world went black.

Monique sat by his bed. She prayed.

She had not prayed in a very long time. She only hoped her prayers would be accepted.

The physician called to Stanhope’s home said Gabriel had lost a great deal of blood. His remedy, after pulling out a bullet, was to bleed him to remove the poisons.

Smythe, whom she had sent for, would not allow it. He had seen too many men die. Alcohol, he said. Pour alcohol over the wound. He had seen it work before. And rest. Gabriel needed rest. Nourishment.

Care.

Monique could provide the last. She had sat by her mother for days, watching her die. She did not intend to watch another person die.

She’d had him moved to his own residence after authorities assured themselves that Stanhope had indeed taken his own life. She determined that Gabriel was going to live.

And at least Mrs. Miller was safe. She had been found bound and bleeding, but was soon indignant and ready to see justice done. She’d not been mollified to realize it had been done.

Smythe helped Monique keep vigil as Gabriel sank into unconsciousness after the bullet was removed from his arm. He woke for a brief period to ask as to her welfare, and Pamela’s. Then he lapsed back into unconsciousness again, his body apparently depleted. Then the fever took over.

He tossed and turned, muttering unintelligible words, evidently returning to that day when as a boy his own father shot himself. Monique bathed his face and body, as his body seemed to radiate heat, then covered him with blankets as he shivered. She forced broth down his throat during brief periods of consciousness and tried to tempt him into drinking water.

His wound was all her fault. If she had left when he’d asked her, if she had been able to spirit him away sooner. If she had not been hell-bent on revenge. Perhaps then he would not be lying in this bed.

“You should get some rest,” Smythe said as he entered the room with fresh water and clothes. “I will dress the wound.”

She shook her head. “I cannot leave him.”

“He is strong and has a will like iron,” Smythe said.

“It is my doing.”

“No, miss. He knew what he was doing.”

“I should have—” She stopped suddenly.

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

“It doesn’t matter now. There was a ship bound for Boston. I had hoped to … see him on it.”

“How?” he said, an old gleam in his eyes.

“Kidnap him,” she admitted wryly.

He chuckled. “He intended the same thing for you,” he said. “The night he was shot. My family and I … we were also intended to be aboard. And take you if necessary.”

A few hours.

A few hours difference and they both would be sailing for Boston. Now he was terribly ill; she had violated her contract by refusing to go to the theater, and Lynch was threatening her; Stanhope was dead; Daven had been arrested and his estate was under scrutiny. Pamela was staying at Stanhope’s home, trying to cope with numerous queries and investigations.

Monique had taken a few moments to send a message to Pamela’s young man, asking him to come to London. Her sister had dropped by several times. She was pale but steady. She had opened her father’s records to the magistrate. They had found papers that proved the earl had tried to defraud the government.

Monique knew it was difficult for Pamela, but she could not—would not—leave Gabriel. Pamela had understood. She had stood beside Monique and watched him as he slept.

“Keep him,” Pamela urged her.

“He is not mine to keep. I did not trust him enough. Nor he I.”

“You were trying to protect each other,” Pamela said gently.

“No, we both wanted … my father dead more than we wanted each other.”

“Not toward the end,” Pamela said softly.

“But then it was too late.”

“It is never too late.”

How Monique wanted to believe her. But how does one who has lived a life based on the past and vengeance turn to one of the future and hope? She wanted to believe it was possible, but looking at Gabriel on the bed, she truly wondered.

Pamela seemed to have grown years in the past few days, or perhaps she had viewed events from a distance for so long she had little emotional involvement.

After she’d left, Monique studied Gabriel’s face. Such an intriguing face. Angular but with a dimple in his chin. The dark eyebrows that now covered those glass-clear green eyes. She recalled his rare smile, the lolling gracefulness of his walk. She reached out and took his hand, a hand marred by calluses. A giveaway of hard work. But now she remembered he always wore gloves in the presence of Stanhope and his friends.

She explored his hand now, then pressed it to her face and kissed his fingers. What would she do without him? He had given her a taste of what love was all about.

She played with those fingers, wishing she could do more. He had rushed into a room, believing she was in danger. He had diverted Stanhope from her. No greater love, she thought, remembering part of a saying she had heard somewhere.

He was so hot. His wound looked frighteningly red and raw.

His eyes opened slowly, then his bloodshot gaze met hers, and he smiled. “I have dreamed of you,” he said. “I did not think …” His voice trailed off.

“No dream,” she said. “I have been here.”

“You are supposed to be in America. Smythe … promised.”

“He told me,” she said with a smile. “By force if necessary.”

He moved. Groaned. His voice was raspy. “Water.”

Smythe was at the door and rushed over to pour water from a pitcher into a cup and handed it to Monique. She leaned over and put it to his lips.

He drank slowly. His skin still felt on fire.

When he was through, he closed his eyes again. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She leaned down. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Gabriel.”

“Gabriel,” she said.

He smiled. A weak wobbly smile that broke her heart. His eyes closed again.

“Get well and I will do anything you wish,” she whispered. “Fight for me.”

Hours later the fever broke. She was half asleep on the chair next to him when she heard Smythe’s indrawn breath. She leaned over to see Gabriel bathed in sweat.

Smythe was by her side. “It is good news,” he said. “The fever has broken.” He handed her some cloths, obviously knowing she wanted to dry him herself.

Any words were stopped by the lump in her throat. She nodded and gently washed away the moisture. His eyes flickered open again, and he moved slightly as she reached his stomach.

His eyes had been dull, and that had worried her more than any other physical sign. They were usually so clear. Now there was a flicker of the old amusement even as a groan escaped his mouth.

“Anything?” he asked in a barely audible voice.

It took her a second to realize he must be referring to her whispered words earlier. She hadn’t thought he had heard them.

“You were not supposed to hear that,” she forced through that lump that lingered in her throat.

“What day …?”

“Three days since you were shot. You lost a great deal of blood. That was a reckless thing to do, go after him. I did not realize how …”

“What … what has happened?”

“I do not know. I just know from Pamela there is an investigation of Lord Stanhope’s business activities. There is no doubt he shot himself. That is all I know.”

“And … Pamela?”

“She is coping quite well. I have sent for Robert, though,” she said. “If they still want one another, nothing can stop them now.”

She continued to dry his body, lingering here and there to trail a fingertip along muscled lines of his chest. It trembled with her touch.

A long breath came from his throat, and she realized how tired he was. His wound was still raw and must be extraordinarily painful, but Smythe said he hadn’t seen any infection. She prayed constantly there would be none.

“You should not try to talk,” she said. “You need rest.”

“I wanted you to be aboard …”

“I had the same plans for you,” she said. “I had two men ready that night to kidnap you and take you to the same ship.”

He gave her a broken smile. “I would have liked waking up with you at sea.”

She swallowed hard. Would have liked.

“Rest,” she said.

“I cannot as long as you do … that.”

She realized she had gone a bit farther than she had intended. Her hands withdrew as if burned.

“You do not have to …” He moved his arm slightly and pain ripped across his face.

“Be still,” she said.

“You did … not answer my question. You said you would do anything?”

“I did.”

“Merry,” he said in a voice growing increasingly faint. “I … like it.”

She started her washing again, but not near the sensitive place. His eyes closed again. She suspected he was at least partially awake. Everything seemed such an effort for him. She leaned down and kissed him. “Anything,” she whispered.

Even leave him.

Gabriel felt weaker than he’d ever felt in his life. Every movement took supreme effort. Every word.

His arm was pure agony.

At one time he’d felt himself slipping away. Only Monique’s words had kept him from doing so.

He knew the wound had not been that bad. It had been the loss of blood. But he couldn’t allow Stanhope to escape.

It had almost killed him.

He felt no satisfaction. Only sorrow that he’d allowed the man to consume his life and almost kill him.

How could anything be built on hate and revenge?

But miracle of all miracles, it appeared Monique had not left his side. And every touch of her hands made him stronger.

He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes open, but neither did he drift off to sleep. He drifted in some space, alternating between the world when he was a lad, the scene in Stanhope’s home, and Monique’s light, which illuminated the area between.

He tried to speak again. To tell her that. But he was so tired. Even now, he was so very tired.

Monique forced herself to eat. His fever had broken, but he still drifted between consciousness and sleep.

There was a little more color in his face, but not enough to cool her fears. Fear for his life. Fear for what would happen when he returned to health. Would he truly want her now that he knew she was Stanhope’s daughter? Had he even heard that part of the exchange between Stanhope and herself?

The question kept haunting her.

Anything.

She would do anything for him. Even let him return to a life without her. It would break her heart but maybe that’s what love was about. Joy. And pain.

The door opened. Mrs. Smythe. They were becoming fast friends now. Mrs. Smythe kept a kettle of broth hot for whenever Manchester woke. She had constantly tried to tempt Monique with meat pies and pastries, but she had to force herself to eat even a little. Just enough to stay and care for Gabriel.

Dani had hovered in Manchester’s room, along with Smythe. They had sat together in a corner of the room. Holding hands. Exchanging glances both worried and intimate. The few times Monique had left to attend personal needs, Dani had quietly taken her place at Gabriel’s side.

Monique had no doubt the two—Smythe and Dani—belonged together.

A knocking came from below.

Mrs. Smythe hurried out the door to answer it.

In seconds she had returned and handed her a card. Lord Tolvery.

She gave a reluctant look at Gabriel.

“I will stay here with Lord Manchester,” Mrs. Smythe said.

Monique gave her a grateful glance and left the room, Smythe protectively behind her.

“Miss Fremont,” the baron said. He was a stocky, older man who walked heavily with the assistance of a cane. “How is Lord Manchester?”

“He is very ill.”

“I am sorry to hear that. He is a very unusual and determined young man.”

She nodded, waiting.

“He came to me with some information. I passed it on to the suitable people. Evidence of crimes was found in Lord Stanhope’s home. They are now looking into old cases, including that of his father. I wanted Manchester to know that.”

“Merci, my lord.”

“You are every bit as lovely as I’ve heard,” he added.

She smiled.

“If Manchester needs anything, anything at all, please call on me. I did his father a disservice years ago. It is a debt I feel deeply. I hope he will stay here in England.”

“I do not think he will.”

“I regret that.” He turned painfully and hobbled toward the door.

Monique closed the door behind him and looked at the card. She remembered now that Gabriel had asked her to send someone for him that night Stanhope had shot him. Instead, she had rushed after him.

She wondered how many other friends Gabriel had. Smythe’s family obviously adored him. So did Pamela. She suspected he had many in Boston.

She had only Dani—had never had more than Dani. She had been too afraid to confide in anyone. Too much in a hurry to end a deadly quest. And now she stood to lose everyone.

She went up the stairs, clutching the card in her hands.

Gabriel had won. His father might well be exonerated now. She hesitated near the top, leaning against the wall. Both of them had tried to fight their parents’ battles. And they had nearly destroyed themselves in the doing.

She vowed then she would never leave that kind of legacy for her own children.

“Monique.”

It was Dani’s voice.

She, finished the last two steps and ran for the bedroom. Dani was outside.

“He’s awake. He is better. He asked for you.”

Relief flowed through her. For a moment …

She went inside the room. He was sitting up. His face was still pale. New lines made trails on his face. His hair was plastered to his head, and bristle on his cheeks and chin made him look like a bandit. But his eyes had that familiar glint that had been missing.

She leaned over and handed the card to him. “The baron said your father’s case is being investigated. You have succeeded.”

He dropped it. “It doesn’t matter now.”

She looked at him, her stomach constricted in a hard knot.

“He said he hoped you would stay in England.”

“No,” he replied.

He reached out and took her hand with his good one. It was unexpectedly strong.

She knew it was time to tell him. There had been too much dishonesty between them already. “Stanhope was my father,” she said.

He looked at her steadily. “I suspected as much.”

She must have looked as startled as she felt. His fingers tightened around hers. “You and Pamela resemble each other,” he said. “And I wondered about your protectiveness …”

“How can you … care for someone who has the same blood as … as the man who is responsible for …?”

“My father was responsible, too,” Gabriel said. “He wanted to show his father that he could be successful. He was too eager to accept help that should have aroused his suspicions. And perhaps if he had fought the charges …”

He was silent for a moment, then added, “I was not responsible for that any more than you are responsible for an accident of birth. But I made myself responsible just as you did.”

He moved closer. She saw the edges of his mouth tighten and could only guess at how much even that slight movement cost him.

He fell back, his eyes searching hers. “I don’t care what your father did or who he was. I want … you to know that.”

She wished she believed that.

He took a deep breath, and she knew his strength was still depleted. It was as if he was gathering what was left to say something. Farewell? Her fingers tightened around his.

“The theater?” he continued after a moment. “You have been here with me. Your role?”

That was not what she wanted him to ask. She wanted him to ask her to go with him again, now that he knew she was Stanhope’s daughter. “Do you really believe I could perform, not knowing whether you were—”

“It takes more than an English earl to kill me,” he interrupted before she could say the word. “I know your career … is important.”

Her heart dropped. “I can find another part.”

“Is that what you want?”

It wasn’t. She wanted him. But though he’d said he loved her, he mentioned nothing about the future.

But their lack of honesty before had led to disaster. “No,” she said softly.

“Does that mean you might like to see new places?”

“Boston, in particular,” she said, holding her breath.

“I am a sailor,” he warned.

“Can I sail with you?”

“Aye,” he said. “If you are my wife.”

Her breath caught in her throat. After a few seconds she asked, “Is that an offer?”

“Oui,” he said with that amused smile she loved so much.

“Then yes,” she said. “Yes.”

Very, very carefully, she leaned down and sealed the bargain with her lips.