Page 25 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
May 3rd
Sir,
As instructed, I have made inquiries regarding the gentleman in question. I regret to inform you that Mr. Charles Weatherby has indeed returned to London. His presence has been confirmed by three reliable sources, including Mr. Lenham of Gresham House and a footman at the Rothermere residence. Mr. Weatherby appears to be moving within familiar circles, though not yet seeking public reconciliation. He has spoken of matters involving your name. These accounts are couched in language that skirts slander, yet suggest impropriety in your past dealings at Mercer’s Wharf.
I shall continue to monitor developments. It may be prudent to consider a preemptive address, should his innuendo reach less discreet ears.
Your most obedient servant,
T. Ellison
Gabriel’s jaw clenched as he folded the page with measured precision. He placed it atop the others, unmoving.
So, it is true, he thought with a tremor. Weatherby has returned.
The man had vanished after their quarrel nearly five years prior, retreating from the disgrace brought about by his embezzlement disguised as careless mismanagement, an accounting discrepancy that might have ruined them both had Gabriel not severed ties at once. That it was he who had emerged from the debacle with his reputation intact still seemed to gall Charles. There had been threats in the beginning. And now, whispers in Mayfair. He ought to have anticipated this. He cursed himself for not having prepared for such an obvious reaction.
A gentle knock at the study door drew him from his brooding. It opened a moment later without waiting for a reply.
“Gabriel,” Sophia said, smiling sweetly. His sister entered, bearing a silver tray and her usual disregard for boundaries. Sophia’s fair curls had been tamed into a modest chignon, and her expression was far too composed for mere civility. “I brought tea. And conversation.”
Gabriel glanced toward the door pointedly.
“I have neither appetite nor time for either,” he said.
Sophia shrugged in her carefree manner.
“That has never prevented me before,” she said as she set the tray on a low table and seated herself opposite him. “Besides, you have been impossible to catch of late. I thought matrimony would make you more sociable, not less.”
He gave her a withering look, which she ignored entirely.
“I passed Genevieve near the glass houses,” she continued, unperturbed. “Mud on her hem. Leaves in her hair. She was scribbling in a little book as though the fate of the nation depended upon it. I must say, I had not expected her to take such a thorough interest in brambles.”
Gabriel said nothing, though the sensation of Genevieve belonging in his home grew stronger. She was as dedicated to the cause as she had portrayed, afterall. Despite the passion with which she spoke, he found himself surprised by the notion.
Sophia poured the tea and passed him a cup he did not want.
“You admire her,” she said softly.
His brow tightened.
“She has been of use,” he said, stiffening. “That is all.”
Sophia looked at him with potent disbelief.
“You are a poor liar,” she said. “As you always have been.”
He set the untouched tea aside.
“This is not a topic I am inclined to entertain,” he said.
Sophia tilted her head and gave it a firm nod.
“That,” she said, “is precisely why it must be pursued. Gabriel, do not tell me you mean to spend the rest of your days hiding behind contracts and convenience while pretending this woman does not affect you.”
He stood, not roughly, but with unmistakable finality.
“I appreciate your concern,” he said. “However, I do not require it.”
