Page 14 of The Lyon Returns
“Of course he is. One of the many qualities that endeared me to him.” Gwen winced inwardly. Digging herself in deeper by the minute.
Mrs. Leach beamed with approval. “Here I am, talking up a storm, when you came here to find me. What may I do for you, ma’am?”
She felt her cheeks heat despite the fact she had considered how best to phrase her request. “Might one of the maids have some time to move the bulk of my things into the chamber adjoining Mr. Devereux’s?”
The woman gave Gwen another approving smile. “Consider it done. You’ll be pleased to know we have already seen to the bedding. You’ll find fresh-scented sheets awaiting you tonight.”
Head-to-toe heat sprouted over her and she knew herself well enough to say for a certainty, her face had gone scarlet.
“I m’self will handle this matter, ma’am. Will you want to oversee the transfer of your things?”
She waved that off. “Heavens, no. I far prefer to spend the time in the upstairs chamber with my work.”
Mrs. Leach made a valiant effort to mask her bemusement. The staff all seemed flabbergasted by the notion their mistress mightwork.Gwen understood. Nevertheless, she would not be swayed by the prevailing sentiment holding a woman of means should refrain from employment. She would not give up her passion for books, for the advancement of thoughts and ideals and freedoms. Not for anyone.
She told herself Mr. Devereux’s staff, like those in her previous household, would eventually grow comfortable with the notion—if she decided to accept his request to stay on—for the time being.
The thing was, one of them would have to leave London at the conclusion of this farce. Likely, she. She found the idea terribly depressing. She did not relish the idea of departing London and saying goodbye to her friends.
On the other hand, perhaps Gideon meant to return to his home in Calcutta.
For some reason, she found that idea equally depressing.
Mrs. Leach’s next words pulled her from her reverie. “Doubtless, you’ll want help with your toilet tonight, ma’am. Clara will present herself promptly at seven to dress your hair and assist you with your gown.”
Gwen normally eschewed the assistance of a lady’s maid. Most days she did not change from her day dress into evening attire, mainly because her gowns all rather resembled one another. She supposed itwould look odd if she did not treat Gideon’s homecoming as a special occasion, however. “You are a wonder, Mrs. Leach. Clara’s assistance will be most welcome.”
Gideon exited theHome Office, pulled up the collar of his great coat against a dismal rain which had commenced since he’d entered the building an hour ago, and hailed a hackney. He gave the driver the address and vaulted into the cab. It lurched into motion.
One more stop before home. Home, his, and now, his supposed wife’s. He was curious to see what changes his bride had wrought in his absence. He was curious about the woman, period.
Despite his inclination to pigeonhole her as an elitist English rose, he could not help wondering if there weren’t more to her. What sort of woman faked a marriage to a supposed dead man in order to procure a business? A goal-oriented one, no doubt. One confident in her ability to pull off the ruse, certainly. One not afraid to operate outside of normal societal boundaries to accomplish her ends.
That last assumption, he had banked his life on by returning. But then, his sole alternative had been to live the rest of his life a fugitive, never stepping foot on English soil again.
She was nothing like he could’ve imagined, however. She neither struck him as a risk-taker nor a mysterious woman of thedemimonde. She was a bloody bluestocking English rose with distinctly tinged blue blood—and yet, after two minutes in her presence, his blood began to simmer with unmistakable awareness.
It made no sense. Most likely the uncertainty about his future had caused a certain proclivity for reactivity when they’d met. A hyper awareness. Tonight, he would not be so inclined. Afterall, his meeting with Varley, the senior undersecretary to the Home Office secretary, had gone well, all things considered.
Varley had not charged Gideon. When the charge was treason, and the penalty death, that was something to celebrate.
Sinking back into pungent cushions, Gideon reflected on the interrogation. The man had treated him with the combination of ill-concealed resentment and grudging respect he’d grown accustomed to over the years, thanks to his unique social position. Even for those who did not know him, his above-average height and darker skin color, especially after prolonged time aboard one of his ships, marked him as an outsider from a foreign land, but his speech and manner and mode of dress pronounced him a member of the upper crust of British society, and extremely wealthy.
Those who did know him understood he was a bastard, born on the wrong side of the blanket, halfway across the globe. He was also not only the acknowledged son of the Duke of Ashwood, but also his father had made it amply clear to all and sundry he would crush anyone who so much as looked at him the wrong way.
But that fact would not have saved him this time, not without the proof he had been handed in the form of one official marriage certificate, and a flesh and blood wife to go with it. The date of the ceremony was key. It made it physically impossible for Gideon to have been present for the perpetration of selling arms to Napoleon’s forces.
According to Varley, a Spanish naval ship dispatched some five months ago to meet the convoy carrying rifles which Gideon’s consortium had sold the British allies in Cadiz not only witnessed his ship in the vicinity, but fired upon it, and hit their mark.
Gideon had reacted to the testimony with just the right amount of surprise and scorn, if he did say so himself, adding that any number of sharp-built brigs similar to his existed.
Varley reluctantly conceded the evidence against Gideon was circumstantial, at best. Nevertheless, he had not dismissed himimmediately. Instead, Gideon endured an hour more of questioning centered primarily on his relationship with his first captain, Dirk Kennedy, who had commanded the vessel carrying the rifles. The undersecretary repeatedly asked whether Gideon had foreknowledge the man intended to commit treason by selling the rifles to Napoleon albeit in different ways meant to confound him and make him admit “the truth.”
As Gideon could honestly say he had no such foreknowledge, the questioning proved fruitless.
Varley had stopped short of promising the accusation would be written off. He informed Gideon the Home Office would review the pertinent facts and make its recommendation to the solicitor general.
Gideon was no fool. He knew the marriage certificate alone did not account for his avoiding a drawn-out, public investigation into the consortium’s misappropriation of weaponry. It did, however, tidy things up for the Home Office and allow them to save face. Better to cite the flimsy marriage certificate than publicly cave to the pressure of the inestimable Duke of Ashwood and his demands to desist branding his eldest son a traitor.
