had seen these weeks in the ton as both a game and a trial, but perhaps it was not quite either. To be roped into marriage on a mistake would be disastrous and life changing. Without pause she hurried back to Lady Harcourt.
* * *
She should not have been alone, Gabriel thought, watching as the unusual Miss Adelaide Ashfield rushed past him and back towards safety. She was so far from the usual run of those new to society he had barely believed she was one. Older for a start and much more...beguiling. Yes, that was the word. She did not seem to harbour the cunning and duplicity of almost every other débutante he had met. She was tall, too, her head rising to his chin, and at six foot four that was something that seldom happened. She was not blonde, either, her hair a mix of sable and dark chestnut and her eyes the colour of a winter stream running over limestone. Deep clear blue with shadows of hurt. He doubted the spectacles she wore were for any reason other than a way of making her appear more studious, less attractive. He could not remember seeing another woman ever wear spectacles to a ball. A further oddness that was intriguing.
Men who came for the Season with the hope of finding a docile and curvy blonde would not be interested in Miss Adelaide Ashfield from Sherborne.
‘God,’ he swore, but his eyes still followed her, pushing past other patrons, barely pausing.
He had frightened her. A good thing that. If one’s reason for being in London for the Season was truly not marriage then she should be glued to the side of the harridan she had finally reached. Another man came to join her and Gabriel recognised him as the hapless Bertram Ashfield, no doubt newly come from the card rooms on one end of the salon. He looked defeated and luckless.
A taller man had also joined the party, his sallow face wreathed in smiles. He was talking to Miss Ashfield in the way of one whose words portrayed more than just the pure sounds. A suitor. Observing the way she leaned away from him, Gabriel gained the impression that any tender thoughts were not returned.
Perhaps she did not lie. Perhaps indeed she was here under duress. The scene became even more interesting when Frederick Lovelace, the Earl of Berrick, joined the small group in the company of the Viscount of Penbury himself. The baby-faced earl had the same look of hope in his expression as the other taller man had.
Gabriel smiled. Could Miss Ashfield be a siren perhaps with the penchant to attract men despite her wishing not to?
Look at her damned effect on him!
He rarely spoke with the new débutantes of the Season and certainly never for so long. Even now he wished he might find her again somewhere isolated so that they could converse further, the low and calm voice that did not hold back feelings placating somehow and sensible.
When the music began to play Gabriel knew it was a waltz and he watched as Berrick took Miss Ashfield’s arm and led her on to the floor. All débutantes needed permission to dance the waltz and he wondered which of Almack’s patronesses had allowed it.
The trouble was she did not seem to know the steps, tripping over her feet more times than he thought possible. Berrick held her closer and tighter so that she might follow him with a greater ease.
Hell. Why did the chaperon not intervene? Or the uncle? Did not others see how very inappropriate such closeness was? He glanced around, but no face was turned towards the couple in censure.
Perhaps Frederick Lovelace was further down the pathway of his courtship than Miss Ashfield had let on? With a curse Gabriel turned for the door. An early night would do him good for once. If only he could sleep.
* * *
Adelaide saw Lord Wesley leave the room, the sure steps of his exit and the quiet observation of others. For one long and ridiculous moment she had imagined that he still watched her and that he might ask her to dance.
Instead the Earl of Berrick held her to the steps, his arms too tight and his body too close. The waltz must soon be finished, surely, and then pleading a headache she could leave, too. She was at that moment glad of such an elderly chaperon and one who would be more than happy for an early night.
Her uncle might not be so pleased, of course, but even he had begun to flag beneath the ludicrous constant social graces and late-night soirées of the ton. Bertie would stay, no doubt, locked into the card rooms in the hope of a win that never seemed to materialise.
‘I should like to call upon you on the morrow if I may, Miss Ashfield.’
He looked as serious as she had ever seen another look. Would he be showing his hand as a suitor? Pray God, she hoped not, but when he squeezed her fingers and looked intently at her she knew that such a wish was false.
‘You are a sensible girl, well endowed with a brain and the ability to use it.’
She smiled, hating her pasted-on joviality with an ache. She could never before remember playing people so false than here in London.
‘My mother, the countess, would like you.’
The music stopped just as she thought she might burst into laughter and Lord Berrick could do nothing but escort her back to her chaperon.
For once the frowns of Lady Harcourt were reassuring and Adelaide took her hand.
‘You are tired, Aunt. Perhaps we might leave?’
The older lady failed to hide the relief that flooded into her eyes as she leant upon her charge and they threaded through the crowded room to the exit.
* * *
Gabriel dreamed that night of colourful dresses and tuneful waltzes, and of a woman in his arms on the dance floor smelling of lemon and hope. Her dark hair was loose and her eyes mirrored the hue of the flowers the greenery around them was bedecked with.
But something was wrong. The ease of the dream turned into worry. He must not kiss her. She would know otherwise. He needed to find some distance from the softness of her touch, a way of leaving without causing question. But she was stuck to him like a spider’s web, clinging and cold, and the only way to be rid of her was to push her down and down until she lay still beneath the marbled font of the destroyed wooden chapel, the smell of sulphur on the glowing fabric of her gown and her feet bare.
Henrietta Clements morphed from Adelaide Ashfield, the blonde of her hair pinked with blood.
He tried to shout, but no words came, tried to run, too, but his feet could not move and the burning ache on his upper right thigh pulled him from sleep into the cold and grey light of dawn.
He could barely breathe, his whole body stiffened in fright and the anger that hung quiet in the daytime now full blooded and red.
Henrietta had come to him out of fear, he knew that. Her husband was purportedly involved in helping to fund Napoleon’s push into Europe and Gabriel had been tailing Randolph Clements for a month or so in an effort to find out more. The Service had had word of the man’s close connections with others in London who held radical views and they wanted to see just whom he associated with.
A simple target. An easy mark. But the small notice he had allowed Henrietta Clements had changed into something else, something he should have recognised as dangerous from the very start.
He laughed, but the sound held no humour whatsoever. Since the fire Randolph Clements had gone to ground, hiding in the wilds of the northern borders, he supposed, or perhaps he had taken ship to France. It didn’t matter much any more. If Clements wanted to exact revenge for the death of his wife, Gabriel would have almost welcomed it, an ending to the sorry saga that his life had now become.
The fire at Ravenshill had ruined him, completely, any intimacy and want for feminine company crouched now amongst pain and fury and sacrifice.
He’d broken hearts and promises for years whilst cutting a swathe through the capricious wants of unhappily married wives. Information to protect a country at war could be gathered in more ways than one might imagine and he done his patriotic duty without complaint.
The rumours that circled around about him had helped as he gathered intelligence