Page 43 of The Hidden Lord
It was early enough that the office remained relatively quiet, lending an air of secrecy rather than celebration to theirnuptials. Henri could not help but contrast this dismal affair with the romantic wedding Madeline had enjoyed just months earlier. Her twin had been married at night in the garden shared with Simon’s kin, surrounded by family and friends, with fragrant hothouse flowers decorating the ornate urn and lanterns illuminating the faces of loved ones. The celestial garden had seemed the perfect setting for Psyche and Eros to unite in matrimony, with Uncle Reggie and Mama beaming with joy as Reverend Stone performed the ceremony under the light of the silver moon.
Here, there were no flowers, no family, no joyful tears. Only Lisette standing as witness beside a consulate staffer Henri had never met, both looking as somber as if they were attending a funeral rather than a wedding. The contrast brought home to Henri just how disparate she and Gabriel truly were, how little she knew of the man she was about to marry, and how utterly soulless their vows would be. Perhaps she would have felt better if Mr. Tyne had been present, but he had already left for England to make arrangements for their arrival.
Gabriel stood beside her in his coat and buckskins, his expression composed but distant. Even now, at their wedding, he seemed to be holding himself apart from her, as if this were merely another negotiation to be concluded rather than the joining of two lives. Henri searched his face for some sign of affection, some indication that this moment held meaning for him beyond securing her silence and cooperation, but found only that familiar mask of careful control.
The consulate’s chaplain began reading the marriage service in a monotonous voice, as if he had performed such duties countless times before and without particular interest in the couple before him. Henri tried to concentrate on the solemn words, on the gravity of the vows she was taking, but her thoughts kept straying to how utterly alone she felt in this stark,official room. No mother to dab at her eyes with a handkerchief, no Uncle Reggie to offer a steadying arm, no twin sister to share her hopes and fears.
When Gabriel spoke his vows, steady and sure, Henri detected no emotion in the formal words. She wondered if he felt anything at all beyond relief that his problem was being solved efficiently. When her turn came, Henri’s voice nearly caught on the promises to love and honor, knowing how one-sided such devotion might prove to be.
The ring Gabriel slipped onto her finger was beautiful but unfamiliar. It felt heavy and foreign on her hand, a tangible reminder of how quickly her life had changed and how little control she had over her own fate.
When the official pronounced them husband and wife, Gabriel’s kiss was brief and chaste, more duty than desire. Henri felt a sharp pang of disappointment at the missed opportunity for connection, for some acknowledgment that they were embarking on a shared journey rather than simply concluding a transaction.
The harbor teemed with noise and motion as they made their way toward the sleek cutter that would carry them across the Channel to Dover. Dockhands shouted over the cries of gulls, and the scent of salt and tar lingered thick in the air. Lisette accompanied them, forming a small party that resembled a diplomatic delegation more than a honeymoon. Henri watched as Gabriel supervised the loading of their trunks, his instructions brisk, his gaze rarely still. He moved with quiet urgency, as though every minute on French soil was one too many. She sensed … not fear, precisely, but a driving need to be away.
During the crossing, Henri was compelled to retreat to the windward side of the deck more than once, the gentle sway of the calm sea still enough to unsettle her stomach. The briskair and bright skies made it bearable, though she found herself gripping the rail with white-knuckled determination. Gabriel was attentive, fetching a blanket when she turned pale, pressing a lemon-drenched cloth into her hand with a murmured suggestion to breathe it in. But he remained otherwise aloof. His courtesy never faltered, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
Henri watched him standing at the rail, her nausea subsiding just enough for curiosity to take hold. She studied his expression as he gazed toward the distant white cliffs, his brow furrowed in thought. His claim that he merely wished to assist her in helping Signor di Bianchi was implausible. There was too much precision in the way he deciphered the symbols, too much ease with Arthurian lore. No gentlemanly impulse could account for such focused interest, or such knowledge. It was becoming plain that Gabriel had a personal stake in the cipher’s secrets, one he had yet to disclose.
When they reached Dover, they were met by the viscount’s official carriages, complete with the Trenwith coat of arms and matched horses that spoke to Gabriel’s elevated status. Henri realized she was now Lady Trenwith, a viscountess, though the title felt as foreign as her wedding ring. As they settled into the luxurious conveyance for the journey to their inn, Henri ventured to ask about their ultimate destination.
“We will rest tonight and then make for London in the morning,” Gabriel informed her, consulting his pocket watch with the same precision he applied to everything else. “Roseberry Topping is quite remote, so it will take time to reach it and make inquiries about the local ruins.”
“Gabriel,” Henri asked carefully, “why are you truly so interested in the sketch? This seems far beyond what would be required to assist Signor di Bianchi with his research.”
Gabriel’s expression grew guarded immediately. “We should solve this mystery together. Once we have found what the cipher reveals, we can go to Trenwith Abbey.”
Henri’s disappointment deepened. Even married to her, even having shared the most intimate moments between a man and woman, Gabriel remained as closed off as ever. Instead of the gradual revelation of his inner self that she had hoped marriage might bring, he seemed determined to maintain the same careful distance that had characterized their relationship from the beginning.
That night at the inn, when Gabriel reached for her with the same passion that had marked their previous encounters, Henri could not shake the feeling that he was using their marital relations to distract her from the emotional intimacy she craved. His touch was skillful, his attention to her pleasure complete, but beneath the passion, she sensed the same desperate quality she had noticed before, as if he were trying to forge a connection through physical means alone while keeping his heart inaccessible.
As she lay in Gabriel’s arms afterward, Henri wondered what it would take to truly reach the man she had married. She had gambled everything on the belief that she could unlock his heart, but with each passing day, she began to fear that Gabriel Strathmore might be determined to remain an unsolvable mystery even to his own wife.
Alaric Devayne pulledhis collar higher against the bitter wind that swept across Dover’s busy harbor, his hollow cheeks already reddened by days of exposure to the elements. From his position near the customs house, he had an unobstructed viewof every vessel that approached the docks, and he had been maintaining this vigil for nearly a week.
His obsessive nature, which had always been both his greatest strength and his most dangerous weakness, had driven him to this point of nearly manic vigilance. He slept poorly in the cramped room he had taken at a dockside inn, ate little beyond the bread and weak beer that kept him functional, and attacked his surveillance with such fervor that the local longshoremen had begun to whisper about the strange, gaunt man who never left his post.
The coins he had promised among the harbor’s more observant residents had already borne fruit. A sharp-eyed boy named Tommy, whose father worked loading cargo, had approached him just that morning with news of a wealthy couple on the deck of a cutter sailing in with the afternoon mist.
Alaric’s pulse quickened as he spotted the vessel in question. Moving closer while maintaining his mask as just another clerk waiting for arrivals, Alaric positioned himself where he could observe the disembarkation without drawing attention. Years of intelligence work during Napoleon’s campaigns had taught him the art of becoming invisible in plain sight, and he employed those skills now.
When the gangplank was lowered, Alaric felt a surge of vindication as he recognized the sandy brown hair of the man who emerged first. The same controlled bearing, the same careful way of moving that suggested both authority and the ability to violence. But it was the woman who followed that truly confirmed his suspicions.
She was no longer bound, no longer struggling, but Alaric could see even from a distance that her circumstances had changed dramatically. The way she moved, the deferential manner in which the French maid treated her, all suggested that she was no longer a captive.
His eyes narrowed as he noticed the way the man offered his arm, the subtle intimacy of their positioning as they waited for their luggage to be unloaded. When he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a wedding ring glinting on her finger, Alaric exhaled in understanding.
Marriage. The perfect solution to the problem of a kidnapped woman who could ruin a man’s reputation.
The arrival of ornate carriages bearing aristocratic arms confirmed what Alaric had already deduced about the man’s elevated status. He watched the party settle into the luxurious conveyance.
When the carriage began to move, Alaric was ready. He had already arranged for a horse to be saddled and waiting at a nearby stable, and within minutes, he was following at a discreet distance. His military experience had taught him how to track without being detected, and the busy Dover roads provided ample cover for his pursuit. But, mayhap, he should just follow them to learn what they were about?
The inn where they stopped was exactly the sort of establishment that would cater to wealthy travelers, with private dining rooms and accommodations for those who preferred to avoid public scrutiny. Alaric secured a room at a smaller inn across the street, positioning himself where he could observe their movements while planning his next approach.
As night fell, Alaric sat at his window, studying the layout of the inn where his quarry had taken refuge. It was his hope that the manuscript and sketch were close now, probably secured in the man’s traveling case or perhaps even carried on the woman’s person. He had come too far and waited too long to abandon his pursuit now.
The woman was clearly no longer an unwilling participant in whatever scheme was unfolding, which might make his taskeasier. He would need to separate her from her protector, create an opportunity to retrieve what he sought without alerting the authorities to his presence.
