Page 27 of The Hidden Lord
Mr. Tyne’s mouth opened and closed several times, as if he were struggling to find words adequate to express his outrage. “My lord, with all due respect, this goes far beyond the usual discretions required in diplomatic service. Miss Bigsby’s family will have half of Parliament searching for her within the week. What possible explanation could we offer that would satisfy such inquiry?”
Gabriel lifted the sketch that Miss Bigsby had been clutching so desperately, studying the intricate drawing and coded symbols that had somehow led to this impossible situation. The delicate parchment was fragile in his hands, yet it represented something that might finally provide answers about Horace’s murder.
What did any of this have to do with his beloved tutor’s death? The manuscript, the sketch, the mysterious forces that had sent that armed man to Danbury’s library. There had to be connections he was missing, patterns that would emerge if he could just find the right perspective.
“My lord?” There was a note of desperate pleading. “Surely, you must see that this course of action is fraught with peril. There must be some way to extricate ourselves from this situation before irreparable damage is done.”
Gabriel set the sketch aside and fixed his secretary with a look that had quelled more experienced diplomats than the nervous man before him. “The situation is what it is, Tyne. We shall deal with the consequences as they arise.”
“But Miss Bigsby’s refusal of your proposal?—”
“Is a temporary setback,” Gabriel interrupted with a finality that brooked no argument. “Nothing more.”
Mr. Tyne stared at him with a mixture of horror and fascination. “My lord, you cannot seriously intend to … That is, surely, you do not mean to force the young lady into marriage against her expressed wishes?”
Gabriel was quiet for a long moment, his gaze drifting back to the sketch. Miss Bigsby rose unbidden in his mind. Those remarkable amber eyes flashing with indignation, her determined little chin set in stubborn refusal, the way she had looked at him as if he were a stranger rather than the man who had risked everything to save her from the wrong end of a musket ball.
“Request that a meal be brought to my room,” Gabriel said finally, rising from the desk with movements that betrayed none of the turmoil roiling within him. “I require rest before tomorrow’s meetings.”
“My lord, we cannot simply ignore?—”
“Good day, Tyne.”
Gabriel walked past his secretary without another word, leaving the man standing in the study with his mouth agape. He made his way up the narrow staircase to the small chamber that served as his private quarters, his head swimming from lack of sleep and the crushing implications of everything that had transpired.
Marriage to Henrietta Bigsby. The very thought sent conflicting waves of anticipation and dread coursing through him. He had dreamed of such a possibility for two years, had fantasized about what it might be like to claim the right to hold her, to wake up beside her each morning, to be the man she turned to for comfort and companionship.
But not like this. Never like this.
The reality of her rejection hit him with renewed force as he closed the door to his chamber and leaned against it, finally allowing his carefully maintained composure to crack. She had refused him. Absolutely and without hesitation, as if the very idea of marriage to him was repugnant.
Gabriel had enjoyed liaisons with women in his past, so he should have taken Miss Bigsby’s rejection in his stride. Heknew women desired him, so it was juvenile to feel so hurt. So unworthy.
But no matter how much he tried to stow his emotions, she simply brought out the worst in him. She made him feel things when he had not permitted such mawkish sentimentality since arriving as a boy at Horace’s home nearly thirty years earlier.
Now he had more emotions than he could count.
Resentment that she had not acknowledged that without his timely arrival she could have been shot through the heart by that lunatic at Danbury’s home.
Dejection because he had finally made his offer only to be soundly rebuked.
Anger at the gods of fate for putting him in this predicament.
Shame that maybe his decision to kidnap her might not have been altruistic at all, but rather an enactment of his suppressed desires.
Heartbreak because?—
Am I cataloging emotions I am not meant to have?
But chastising himself did not ease the ache of her rejection, no matter how much he willed it so. Until, eventually, drawing a deep breath to calm the turmoil, he resolved she would marry him before they left Calais. He would find a way to persuade her. He wished he could simply tell her how much he wanted this. Wanted her.
But history had taught him that revealing one’s emotions only led to trouble. Deuce it, having emotions in the first place was a damned terrible burden to shoulder. They must be squashed with ruthless determination lest they fester and destroy a man. Loneliness was the best weapon to contain unbridled feelings. He simply needed some distance from the delectable Miss Bigsby, some time to himself, and astute logic would be restored.
Gabriel moved to the narrow window that overlooked the harbor, watching the distant shadows of ships bobbing at anchor under the morning’s bleak light. Somewhere back in England lay the answers he sought, the connections between Horace’s murder and the mysterious manuscript that had brought him to this impossible crossroads. The attempt to murder Miss Bigsby for the very manuscript and sketch that now lay on his desk proved he had found the right threads to unravel to solve the violence committed against his tutor. Given his conversation with Miss Bigsby earlier, it was going to take some persuasion to convince her to disclose her role in this mystery.
Tomorrow, he would meet with Étienne, would focus on the vital work of securing the release of English agents who had spent years in French captivity. Today, he would rest and prepare himself for the challenges ahead.
And somehow, he would find a way to convince Miss Bigsby that marriage to him was not the disaster she believed it to be.
