Page 47 of The Hidden Lord
Later that evening,as Henri prepared for bed in the chamber that had been hers since childhood, Gabriel found himself standing at the window, staring out at the London streets whilehis mind churned with an anxiety he had not experienced in years.
The dinner with Henri’s family had gone well by any objective measure. He had successfully navigated their questions, earned Eleanor Bigsby’s grudging approval, and maintained the diplomatic cloak that had served him so well throughout his career. Yet beneath his composed exterior, Gabriel felt as though the walls were closing in around him.
It was the way they had all looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to explain himself, to justify his actions, to become part of their family dynamic. Uncle Reggie’s questioning glances, Eleanor’s shrewd assessments, even Henri’s eager chatter about their adventures, all combined to create a suffocating sense of being surrounded, examined, judged.
Family.
The word itself made Gabriel’s chest tighten with old fears. These people were his family now, by marriage if not by blood, and the weight of their expectations pressed down on him like a physical force. They wanted to know him, to understand him, to draw him into their warm circle of shared affection and mutual concern.
The memory rose unbidden of standing in his grandfather’s library, five years old and desperate for acceptance, only to be found wanting and shipped away like an unwanted burden. The parallel was uncomfortably clear in his mind, even though he recognized the irrationality of the comparison.
“Gabriel?” Henri’s voice was soft, questioning. “Are you quite well? You have seemed rather distant since we arrived.”
Gabriel turned to face her, noting how lovely she looked in her nightgown, her honey-brown hair loose around her shoulders. Any other night, he would have crossed the room and taken her in his arms, losing himself in the passion that blazed between them. Tonight, however, he felt trapped by invisiblechains of memory and expectation, and even her presence did not bring peace.
“We must leave at dawn,” he said abruptly, settling into the armchair by the window rather than approaching the bed.
Henri’s expression grew puzzled, then disappointed. “Dawn? Gabriel, surely we can spare a day or two. I hoped to wait for Signor di Bianchi to return so I could give him back his sketch and tell him what we have learned. He’s been so worried about my disappearance, and he deserves to know that his ancestor’s mystery is being solved.”
“Impossible,” Gabriel replied, harsher than he intended. “We’ve delayed too long already. Every moment we remain here increases the risk that we will be followed or intercepted.”
“But, Gabriel?—”
“The matter is not open for discussion,” Gabriel cut her off, his tone taking on the commanding quality he used with subordinates in diplomatic settings. “You will be ready to depart at dawn. That is final.”
Henri recoiled as if he had struck her, her amber eyes wide with hurt and confusion. “I … yes, my lord,” she said quietly, the formal address creating a gulf between them that Gabriel immediately regretted but felt powerless to bridge.
Gabriel watched as Henri climbed into bed, turning her face away from him toward the wall. The rigid set of her shoulders spoke to her wounded feelings, but Gabriel found himself unable to cross the room and offer comfort. The very intimacy that had become so natural between them now felt risky, threatening to expose vulnerabilities he could not afford to reveal.
Instead, Gabriel remained in his chair, staring out at the darkened city while his wife fell into what he hoped was sleep rather than the silent tears he suspected. The familiar weight of isolation settled around him like an old coat, providing armor at the cost of affinity.
When exhaustion finally claimed him in the small hours of the morning, Gabriel’s sleep was plagued by dreams that had haunted him for decades. He stood once again in his grandfather’s library, reaching out desperately for acceptance that would never come.
“Five years old and already displaying such weakness.”The old viscount’s reproach echoed with cold disdain.“Thank God Charles did not live to see what manner of son he raised.”
The sensation of choking grief returned, the inability to hold back the sobs overwhelming his senses, but then the dream shifted, and suddenly, Gabriel was reading the letter that had shattered his world years later. The formal script of Horace’s solicitor, cold and impersonal, delivered devastating news that had made Gabriel’s heart stop.
It is with the deepest regret that I must inform you of the death of Mr. Horace Pelham. The authorities have determined that Mr. Pelham was murdered during what appears to have been a robbery of his study. His papers and books were ransacked, though no items of obvious value seem to have been taken. Funeral arrangements have been made in accordance with his wishes?—
Gabriel jolted awake with a gasp, his heart racing and cold sweat dampening his brow. The memory of receiving that crushing letter was as sharp as ever, the clinical language doing nothing to soften the brutal reality that the only person who had ever truly cared for him was gone, murdered by unknown hands.
The pale light of dawn was already creeping through the windows, signaling that their departure time had arrived. Gabriel rose quietly, dressing mechanically while his mind struggled to rebuild the walls that his dreams had so thoroughly demolished.
Today, they would begin the journey to Yorkshire, following clues that might lead him closer to understanding Horace’s death and the forces that had destroyed the old man. But as Gabriel prepared to wake his wife and continue their investigation, he could not shake the fear that he was walking deeper into a trap of his own making. Perhaps he should not have taken Henri from that library, which he was now convinced had not been driven by necessity but rather a moment of weakness on his part.
CHAPTER 15
“Wit you well, my heart was never so heavy as it is now.”
Sir Thomas Malory,Le Morte d’Arthur
FEBRUARY 1, 1822
Henri descended to the breakfast room and found Gabriel breaking his fast. His trunk stood by the door, and she could hear activity in the mews as their carriage was being prepared. The efficiency of it all only served to remind her of how completely he had dismissed her wishes the night before.
“Good morning,” Gabriel said politely as Henri took her seat at the table. “I trust you slept well?”
Henri’s response was a pointed silence as she reached for the tea service with more force than necessary. She was still furiousabout his high-handed treatment, and she had no intention of making this morning pleasant for him.
