Velvet

Chapter 27

It wasn't possible that she was still involved in espionage. She couldn't be. It wasn't logical.

Nathaniel looked across the dining table to where Gabrielle sat in animated conversation with her neighbor. As if aware of his scrutiny, she glanced up briefly, her eyes flickering across the expanse of glowing rosewood, the glistening silver, the puddles of golden candlelight. Her lips twitched into her crooked little smile that imparted a special intimacy among the buzzing voices of their fellow guests. Then she turned back to her neighbor and Nathaniel heard her laugh, that deep, warm sound of merriment that had never failed to delight him even when he was angry with her.

His own neighbor offered a tentative conversational sally, and he realized that he'd been sitting in brooding silence for the better part of the second course. He went through the motions for a few minutes but was as relieved as his partner when she was drawn into a conversation on her other side.

Absently, he helped himself from a dish of quail in aspic, remembering too late that he disliked the fiddly little birds and couldn't abide aspic.

He'd asked her about the notations on her blotter-a genial, casual question-and she'd responded in the same manner, saying it had been such a long time since she'd exercised her mind in that way and she'd been testing herself to see how much of the code she could remember.

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Why on earth was Nathaniel eating quad? Gabrielle frowned, watching him dissect one of the birds and then push it to the side of his plate with an impatient gesture. He loathed aspic and despised quail. And didn't he realize how discourteous he was being, sitting in morose silence? Poor Hester Fairchild looked as uncomfortable as if she were sitting next to a hungry tiger.

But he'd been in an unpredictable mood for the past ten days, ever since his meeting with Simon. As luck would have it, he wasn't satisfied with merely receiving and acting upon such valuable information. There was a mystery attached to it, and the need to solve it had become a near obsession. For some reason, she hadn't considered that possibility.

He didn't know that solving it would do nothing for his peace of mind, quite the opposite. And it would do nothing for Gabrielle's peace of mind either. The prospect of his reaction to the truth filled her with a healthy fear. However useful her information, she was still manipulating him at Talleyrand's bidding.

Lady Willoughby rose from her chair at the foot of the table, signaling that the ladies should withdraw, and Gabrielle's neighbor stood to pull back her chair for her. She noticed that Nathaniel moved a fraction too late for courtesy to render his own partner the same service. Something had to be done… but what?

Nathaniel lingered in the dining room with Lord Willoughby, long after the other men had left to join the ladies over the teacups in the drawing room. Lord Willoughby was more than happy to find one of his guests prepared to match him glass for glass as the port decanter circulated, particularly when the guest was disinclined for conversation and as content to ruminate in silence as his generally reclusive host.

"Is Nathaniel still in the dining room, Miles?" Gabrielle crossed the drawing room as Miles came in.

"Yes, the last one. He and Willoughby are partnering each other in sullen silence. He's in one of his vile moods tonight. What's the matter with him, Gabby?"

"I don't know." Miles was ignorant of Nathaniel's true working life, so she couldn't offer even a vague explanation about pressure of work. "It's probably London. You know how he hates all this." She gestured around the room with a half-smile. "The inane gibbering of a troupe of monkeys…"

Miles chuckled. "I thought he'd recovered from his misanrhropy."

"I think it's an innate characteristic," Gabrielle said seriously. "But in general he keeps its manifestations in check."

"Mmmm. Let me fetch you a cup of tea." Miles strolled over to where his hostess was dispensing tea and brought back two cups. "So what do you think of your godfather's new position as Vice Grand Elector? It would seem a position of title rather than power."

Gabrielle laughed. "If you believe that, you don't know Talleyrand, Miles. You can be sure he's peddling his influence as much now as he ever did as Minister for Foreign Affairs. I'll lay any odds he was at Fontainebleau last month… Oh, Georgie, I was hoping to have a word." She held out a hand to her cousin, who was weaving her way through the knots of tea drinkers toward them. "I need your advice. Should I invite your mama and papa to dinner with the prime minister? Or do you think they would prefer a group of their own friends?"

Her voice rose and fell, and Nathaniel, who'd come quietly into the room, stood frozen in the shadows behind her. What did Gabrielle know of Fontainebleau? He'd told her no details of the mysterious message, and she'd accepted his refusal to discuss it with what now struck him as unusual compliance.

If she knew what the message was, then she wouldn't need to pursue it.

His head felt as if it were about to burst. Fat grubs of suspicion heaved in his brain. But it still made no sense. There was no logical reason why, if in some extraordinary fashion she'd come across such information, she shouldn't be honest about it. And it was always possible Simon had mentioned Fontainebleau to her. She was often at the house on Grosvenor Square and he and Gabrielle were great confidants. He talked to her with complete freedom.

No, Gabrielle couldn't reasonably be the source of that intelligence. She had no contacts in France anymore. Or did she? Was she still part of the network of French agents in London?

Suddenly she turned, and the candid gray eyes filled with pleasure at the sight of him.

She had sworn to him that she loved him, that she forswore all previous allegiances. She had brought him her loyalty as the gift of love. She had pursued him, saved his life, forced him to accept his own love as he accepted hers. She had done nothing to warrant his suspicions. And yet…

"Nathaniel, there you are. I was beginning to think I'd lost you permanently to the port decanter." There was a hint of rebuke in her voice, although her eyes smiled.

"Come, I wish to go home," he said. He hadn't meant to say that, or at least not in that curt manner. Why was it that he could dissemble in his work, never show a hint of his thoughts and feelings, and yet in the everyday world he found himself speaking straight from his heart without any mental filtering?

A slight flush touched Gabrielle's translucent cheeks and her chin lifted in ominous fashion. Miles and Georgie exchanged glances and stepped backward, blending into the group behind them.

"Then I suggest you go," she said icily. "As it happens, I'm not ready to leave yet."

He wasn't going to leave her there. While the doubts and mistrust swirled in his head, he wanted-no, desperately needed-her under his eye. It was an instinctive but nonetheless compelling reaction.

"Nevertheless, we are leaving." He drew her arm through his, and she was immediately aware of the muscular power clamping her arm to his body.

She had no choice but to submit if this was to be a dignified exit. Nathaniel whisked them through the salons in search of their hostess. Gabrielle glanced at his tight-lipped countenance and struggled for the sake of politeness to keep her own anger from showing as she made her farewells, trying to compensate with her own warmth for Nathaniel's taciturn mutter.

They stood in the hall while a maid went in search of her cloak and the footman ran to the mews for their carriage. Gabrielle tapped one foot on the parquet, her eyes blazing. Nathaniel still held her arm in the vise of his own, and when she attempted to pull free, he smacked his other hand over hers so that she was held fast.

The carriage drew up and the footman bowed them out. Nathaniel released her at the footstep, but instead of handing her in, he put a flat palm on her bottom and propelled her unceremoniously upward.

She turned on him before the door was shut behind him. "Just what the devil was that all about? How dare you drag me out of there like some misbehaving child! And how could you behave so badly yourself?"

Nathaniel said nothing, just leaned his head against the leather squabs, his face turned to the window. Light from a night watchman's lantern flickered momentarily over his set countenance and Gabrielle could see a muscle twitching in his cheek.

"Answer me, damn you!" Her palm itched to slap him into a response, but Nathaniel was not a good man to hit. He gave as good as he got.

"There's nothing to say." He spoke finally, sounding ineffably weary. "I'm tired and I'm sick to death of these damn parties."

"That's it?" She stared at him. "You behave in the most ill-mannered fashion the entire evening, embarrass and humiliate me beyond bearing, and your only excuse is that you're tired. Well, let me tell you, Nathaniel Praed-"

"Bequiet!"

The sharp command so surprised her that for a moment she was silenced. She closed her eyes, struggling for reason and control, and then said more moderately, "What's the matter, Nathaniel? What's behind this?"

He regarded her bleakly in the dimness. What if he asked her outright? What if she admitted it? He couldn't bear it. It was as simple as that. He couldn't court that destructive admission. Better to live with these maggots of suspicion than have to deal with the knowledge that his wife had reasons other than love for marrying him.

Cowardice… arrant cowardice, and yet he couldn't help it. He rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers and sighed heavily. "Forgive me. I have a crushing headache. I could think only of getting out of there."

"Perhaps you should have gone easier on the claret and the port," she said with asperity, not a whit appeased by this explanation.

She turned her head toward the window, feeling her own temples tighten. His attack had not been simple petulance, Nathaniel in a bad mood taking it out on a safe object-wives were supposed to fulfil that function occasionally. No, it had been directed at her as the cause of his anger.

Could he suspect anything? But there was no proof and there never would be. Just that carelessness with the blotter, and that was easily explained. Even if he did suspect something now, it would die away in time when nothing happened to confirm those suspicions. She would just have to keep cool and calm until that happened. And accepting his treatment this evening was not consonant with the presumption of innocence.

"If you ever do anything like that to me again, Nathaniel, I'll create such a scene, you won't want to show your face outside your own door for a six-month," she declared in a low, fierce voice.

"Don't threaten me, Gabrielle." But he sounded more weary than menacing. "If I embarrassed you, I beg your pardon. I was desperate to get away."

"You could have gone home on your own."

"I needed the comforting company of my wife." Again without volition, the declaration emerged as sardonic as the feeling behind it.

The carriage drew up in Bruton Street before Gabrielle could come up with an appropriate response. Nathaniel jumped down and held out his hand to assist her down. Gabrielle ignored the hand, stepped down to the street, and stalked past him into the house. Her hands shook as she stripped off her silk gloves.

"I'll bid you good night, my lord. I suggest you take a powder for your headache. I can't think what to suggest for your temper, however."

In a rustle of emerald silk skirts she marched up the stairs, leaving Nathaniel in the hall.

He swore a savage oath and went into his book room, slamming the door behind him. He poured a glass of cognac from the decanter on the pier table, then tossed the fiery spirit down his throat and reached again for the decanter. He seemed to have a great cold hole in his chest that he could neither warm nor fill. It was a long time before he went up to bed.

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Gabrielle slept badly and awoke late the next morning. She lay in bed, wondering for a minute why she felt so leaden and melancholy, and then she remembered. Last night's scenes replayed themselves with depressing accuracy. How long was it going to continue… and how long could she keep quiet and put up with it?

Damn Talleyrand!

She pulled the bellrope beside the bed and waited for Ellie to come up with her hot chocolate.

"Miserable day, it is, m'lady." Ellie greeted her cheerfully, placing the tray on the bedside table before pulling back the rose velvet curtains on a gray, overcast sky. "I'd best light the candles," she said, bustling around.

Gabrielle hitched herself up on the pillows and reached for the cup of chocolate. The rich scent came up and hit her, and her stomach rose into her throat. "Dear God, I'm going to be sick!" She flung herself from the bed and behind the commode screen.

Ellie was plumping the pillows when Gabrielle re-emerged, paler than usual.

"Maybe tea would suit better than chocolate, m'lady," the maid said matter-of-factly. "Folks take agin different things… sometimes it's coffee, sometimes tea-"

"What are you talking about?" Gabrielle climbed back into bed. "I must have eaten something last night that disagreed with me. It was probably the crayfish pudding. I thought it tasted a bit odd."

"I don't believe so, m'lady," Ellie said, smoothing the coverlet over Gabrielle's knees. "It's been near six weeks since you last 'ad your time."

"What?" Gabrielle lay back on the pillows, absorbing this. "That long?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sweet heaven." She touched her belly fleetingly.

"Shall I fetch some tea?"

"Yes, please… anything but that revolting stuff." Gabrielle's mouth twisted in distaste. "And, Ellie-"

"Ma'am?"

"For the moment this is just between the two of us. I don't want to say anything to his lordship until I'm certain."

"Of course, m'lady." Ellie bobbed a curtsy and disappeared with the tray of chocolate.

Gabrielle closed her eyes, a smile on her lips. Nathaniel was not going to be overjoyed, not at first, but he'd have to realize that however scrupulously careful he'd been, in the excess of passion that so often shook them like an earthquake, it was not surprising that his caution had been insufficient.

Anyway, this news should serve to divert his thoughts from his present obsession. It would give him something else to worry about, something much easier for her to handle.

She'd have to pick her moment to tell him. And soon. She touched her belly again, and the sweet hope became a certainty. There was no need to wait for further signs. She knew that Nathaniel's seed had been well planted.

Ellie reappeared with tea. "A little dry toast often 'elps in the morning, m'lady," the maid observed. "So I took the liberty of bringin' a piece. It worked a treat for me mam when she was 'avin' our Martha."

"I can see I'm going to be relying on your experience, Ellie," Gabrielle said, nibbling the toast. She took a sip of tea. "So far so good."

"Other best thing is rose hip tea, Mam always says." Ellie poked the fire and threw kindling on the sparking embers. '"What gown will you be wearing this morning, m'lady?"

"Oh, a riding habit, please. I'm engaged to ride in the park." Gabrielle threw aside the covers and stood up. No nausea. Tea and dry toast in the morning from now on.

Nathaniel was in the breakfast parlor when she went downstairs. He looked up without smiling from the Gazette as she entered.

"Good morning. I trust you slept well."

"Not particularly," Gabrielle said, finding no desire to smile herself in the face of this patent unfriendliness. "How about you?"

"All right, I suppose." He resumed his reading.

The shadows under his eyes told another story, Gabrielle reflected, surveying the chafing dishes on the sideboard with an unconscious moue of distaste. Nothing appealed. A dull nausea had settled in her belly. She glanced across at Nathaniel and decided this was not the moment to share her news.

She sat down and took a piece of toast, buttering it lightly before cutting it into thin strips. Idly, she dipped the finger of toast into her tea and ate it with relish.

"What on earth are you doing?" Nathaniel stared in disbelief.

"What?" Startled, she looked up in the act of dunking another finger. "Oh." She looked at the piece of toast with some surprise. "I don't know, it just seemed like a good idea. And it tastes lovely."

"It's disgusting," Nathaniel declared. "Pure slop. Anyone would think you hadn't got any teeth."

"Well, I'm sorry if it offends you. but-"

Her words were cut off by the violent shattering of glass as something flew through the long window and crashed against the far wall.

"What the hell!" Nathaniel sprang to his feet as the cricket ball rolled beneath the sideboard. "That's the second window in three days! I told him he was not to play anywhere near the house!"

Gabrielle rose from her chair. "Easy now, Nathaniel," she cautioned swiftly. "It's only a window."

But if Nathaniel heard her, he made no acknowledgment. He flung open the window. "Jake! Come in here at once."

A stricken Jake appeared at the breakfast room door a couple of minutes later. "I b-beg pardon, sir," he said. "I was practicing bowling overarm, and it sort of slipped."

"What did I tell you the last time?" Nathaniel demanded furiously, towering over the child.

Jake looked in anguished appeal toward Gabrielle, who could tell that he was about to run to her. She realized that this was one occasion when no one would benefit from her intervention; any such action would only exacerbate his father's anger. Deliberately, she turned aside, picking up the discarded newspaper.

"Well?" Nathaniel demanded when Jake stood, tongue-tied.

Two large tears trickled down Jake's cheeks, and he snuffled miserably. "I was waitin' for Primmy to take me to the square garden to play," he offered with a gulp. "It was only one throw."

"I will not tolerate disobedience," his father stated. "You may spend the rest of the day in the schoolroom, and there will be no visits to the garden for the rest of the week."

Jake's eyes widened in horrified dismay. "But, Papa-"

"Did you hear what I said?" Nathaniel thundered.

Jake turned and fled upstairs.

"Oh, Nathaniel," Gabrielle said in soft protest. "He was to go to Astley's this afternoon with the Bedford children. He's talked of nothing else for days."

It was clear from Nathaniel's expression that he'd forgotten this. But he only said curtly, "Then it's to be hoped he'll learn the lesson well." He returned to his unfinished breakfast.

Gabrielle sat in frowning silence for a minute. If it weren't for the trip to Astley's, it didn't qualify as a particularly severe sentence, but Jake was such a sensitive child that a mild rebuke was usually enough to ensure penitence.

After a minute she said, "Couldn't you reconsider, Nathaniel? If he believes he's going to be denied the treat for the next three hours, it'll be sufficient punishment. You know how tractable he usually is."

Nathaniel raised his eyes from his plate, and a chill ran down her spine. He was looking at her as if he didn't know her.

"Jake's my son," he said coldly. "This isn't your business."

Gabrielle felt winded, as if someone had punched her in the stomach. How could he say such a thing? In all essentials Jake was as much her child as Nathaniel's. It was one of their greatest shared joys, one of the inextricable ties that joined them.

It felt as if he was cutting those ties.

Without a word she pushed back her chair and left the room.

Nathaniel dropped his head into his hands under a wash of misery. He couldn't go on like this. Either he confronted her with his suspicions, or he put them from him. But he seemed to be in the grip of some satanic influence that forced him to cut and wound with every breath as if such inflictions could lessen his own pain. Instead, they increased it.

Perhaps if he went away, took some time, put some distance between them, then things would fall into place. He wouldgo to Lisbon. There was a job to be done there, one he could do better than anyone. It would distract him. And when he came back, perhaps he'd have an answer to this horrendous dilemma.

He spent the morning making the necessary arrangements and returned to the house at noon, after a meeting with the prime minister. The house seemed very quiet, unpleasantly quiet.

"Is her ladyship in?"

"I believe so, my lord." Bartram took his hat and cane. "I understand she's having nuncheon with Master Jake in the schoolroom."

"I see. Has the glazier fixed the breakfast room window yet?"

"Yes, my lord." Bartram coughed. "It was a capital throw, my lord. Very good form. I saw it from the landing window. He'll make a first class bowler one of these days, if you don't mind me sayin' so."

Bartram's expression was wooden, except that he had a twinkle in his eye.

"He's going to have to learn to aim better first," Nathaniel observed, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. The prospect of action had gone some way toward restoring his equilibrium.

He mounted the stairs to the third floor, pausing outside the schoolroom door. Gabrielle's cheerful voice reached him through the oak, but there was no sound from his son.

He opened the door. Gabrielle and Jake were sitting at the table in the firelit room. They turned and regarded him in wary silence. Nathaniel felt like an ogre. It was as bad as the days before Gabrielle.

Jake's eyes were red and swollen, Gabrielle's gaze was unreadable, but he knew that she was both hurt and angry.

"Jake, you may go with the Bedfords," he said.

The child leaped to his feet with a delighted cry, his wan countenance transformed. He ran to Nathaniel and flung his arms around his waist, hugging him.

"Hey." Nathaniel caught the small, round chin, tilting it up. "It had better not happen again, do you hear?"

"Oh, yes." Jake nodded solemnly, but he couldn't help the grin that immediately split his face. "Thank you… you're… you're the best papa in the whole wide world!"

Nathaniel shook his head in amused denial. "You'd better hurry and get ready. Cut along now."

Jake scampered off to the nursery, calling for Primmy to help him find his coat.

Gabrielle rested her elbows on the table. "What brought on the change of heart?"

"You," he said. "As usual. I need to talk to you." He closed the door.

Her heart went cold. Was he going to confront her?

"I'm going away for a few months," Nathaniel said, his shoulders resting against the door at his back.

"Away?" She couldn't hide her dismayed surprise. "Where to?"

"To Lisbon," he said, watching her closely, but her expression didn't change.

"Why?"

"There's work to be done," he said noncommittally.

"Why don't I come with you?" She stood up, her eyes suddenly alight. For the moment she'd forgotten about her pregnancy, and could think only of the thrill of being together again through the excitements and dangers of such a journey… of how such an adventure would cure the present grimness, would put paid to all suspicion and doubt.

"Don't be absurd!" Nathaniel said. "If Fouche got his hands on you, your life wouldn't be worth a day's purchase." Unless she was still in his pay.

"The same applies to you," she pointed out. "Oh, come on, Nathaniel, remember the last time, that journey from Tilsit. Wouldn't it be wonderful to do it again?"

Nathaniel pushed himself away from the door, and his face was black, his eyes as hard as stone. "Now, you listen to me," he said with soft but deadly menace. "If you so much as think of following me, Gabrielle, I will make your life a living hell. I swear it on my mother's grave."

Gabrielle took an involuntary step back from the ferocious figure. "All right," she said, lifting her hands palm up in a gesture of acceptance. "It was a bad idea… all right." It was, of course. Reality reasserted itself. Racketing around the Continent in the early months of pregnancy was asking for trouble.

Nathaniel's eyes bored into her during a brief, tense silence, as if he were reading her mind, then he exhaled through his mouth, apparently satisfied.

"I'm going to Burley Manor in the morning," he said in more level tones. "I've some estate matters to deal with before I leave. I expect to sail for France toward the end of the week."

"Shall I come to Burley Manor?" she asked very tentatively.

"No. There would be no point. I'll be far too busy."

"Oh… right." She shrugged with an assumption of carelessness. "I don't suppose you know how long you'll be away."

"A few months, as I said."

"Two… three… four?"

"I've no idea. You know how hard it is to be precise." He sounded impatient.

It'sa question of how pregnant I'll be when you get home. "Yes, I know," she said with another shrug. Damn the man! How could she possibly tell him, when he was being so hostile and distant?

"I'll miss you, though." She tried to inject some warmth into the conversation.

Nathaniel's eyes softened. "I'll miss you too, Gabrielle." He meant it. Even when she was twisting him into knots, he couldn't bear to be away from her. "But it's something that I have to do."

"I understand."

Maybe it was time for a separation, she thought. Maybe when he was away from her, whatever suspicions lay behind this estrangement would be put to rest.

He left early the next morning, driving his curricle. Gabrielle stood at the window, watching as he disappeared down the street. Her body felt bereft, as if she'd been abandoned in the middle of making love. And perhaps that wasn't an inaccurate analogy.