Page 22 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
James smirked humorously.
“So the story went,” he said. “But as of last week, he was seen at a gaming hell in Covent Garden. Two witnesses I trust, both of whom are men of discretion. One of them overheard him speaking of an estate he ought to have had. He mentioned your name directly.”
Gabriel’s hand closed around the decanter after all. He poured half a glass, not bothering to offer one to James. The brandy struck the sides of the crystal with a dull note. He drank, the burn welcome.
“That fool,” he said.
James nodded, his nostrils flaring.
“Fool he may be, but dangerous nonetheless,” he said. “He still harbors resentment. That much was plain. And if he speaks openly of what happened, it may not remain a private matter much longer.”
Gabriel moved to the hearth and stared into the grate, though the fire had long since burned down to ash. The room held the memory of heat, but none of its comfort.
“He stole from three men,” he said slowly. “He lied to a dozen more. I had no choice but to sever ties. He nearly brought down that entire venture.”
James gave a short nod.
“You did what was necessary,” he said. “But men like Charles do not remember necessity. Only pride. And loss.”
Gabriel glanced back at him.
“You believe he would come here?” he asked.
James shrugged, though his eyes remained grave.
“I do not know,” he said. “But I believe he bears a grudge. And grudges tend to fester, especially in idle men with no honor left to occupy them.”
The study fell quiet. Outside, a wind stirred the ivy that climbed the east wall, and somewhere down the corridor came the faint echo of feminine laughter. The sound felt at odds with the silence inside the room.
Gabriel turned back to the window. His reflection stared back at him in the glass, drawn tight with memory. He was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly forgot James’ presence until he spoke again.
“Watch the servants,” he said. “If he means to strike, he will not do so with his own hand. Men like him never do.”
Gabriel nodded, a memory previously dismissed trying to present itself, but remaining too cloudy to grasp.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said quietly.
They said nothing more. But as the fire guttered low and the shadows stretched, Gabriel felt the familiar tension of watching and waiting, and weighing trust with suspicion, burdening him. He had thought he had left such things behind. Yet here it was again, waiting for him in the shape of a man long cast out, returning like smoke beneath a door. And this time, it was not only his own life that might be wounded.
Chapter Nine
The morning held a muted stillness, the kind suited to solitary pursuits. Genevieve stepped along the narrow path behind the west wing, her slippers brushing against tufts of grass that had crept over the flagstones after years of neglect. The glass houses rose before her, weathered and overgrown with vines, yet not beyond redemption. Beneath the burden of ivy and grime, the elegant arches of the original iron framework remained intact. Large panes of dulled glass caught the light in fractured reflections, streaked by age but unbroken.
She paused before the largest structure, once likely intended for tropical cultivation. A greenhouse of such scale spoke to earlier generations’ ambitions, perhaps an Earl fond of exotic orchids or hothouse fruit. Now, the building stood as a monument to forgotten purpose. Yet even in disrepair, she found it compelling. This was no idle garden folly. There was function beneath the decay.
Drawing a slim notebook from the pocket of her walking dress, Genevieve began her inspection. She moved methodically, recording each cracked pane and warped timber, assessing what might be salvaged. Her notes were both concise and practical. Brickwork in one section required repointing. Glazing would need custom cutting.
Hinges rusted through would require full replacement. She indulged in no sketches of imagined blossoms or decorative flourishes. There were only quantities, materials, and estimates. If she had entered into matrimony for security rather than affection, then this restoration would follow suit. Not a dream, but a solution.
And yet, as her hand moved across the page, a quiet sense of purpose took hold, unexpected but steadying. She pressed forward, cataloging damage not with dismay, but with determination. This was a place that might breathe again, if given the right attention.
A scuff of boots on gravel announced Mr. Winters’s approach before she glimpsed his neat figure through the broken trellis archway. The estate manager tipped his hat with practiced courtesy, though his expression bore the wary reserve of a man uncertain of what to make of a mistress inspecting cracked joists rather than directing tea arrangements.
“Good morning, Lady Mountwood,” he said with bland politeness.
She nodded in acknowledgment, trying to assess the man before her. She had seen him staring at her and Gabriel before, though she had thought little of it then. Now, however, there was something that seemed to demand her attention about him.
“And to you, Mr. Winters,” she said, shutting her notebook with care. “I have been surveying the glass houses. I believe restoration is possible, though the effort required is not insignificant.”
