For a few moments the Westcotts were silenced.
“The long-lost earl?” Great-aunt Edith said, breaking the silence. “Well, bless my soul.”
“I say, this is splendid stuff,” young Boris Wayne said with youthful enthusiasm. “Rochford is not going to be at all happy, though, is he, poor fellow? Nor is his father, at a guess.”
“I think I decided to come up to London at just the right time,” Harry said. “This beats rusticating at Hinsford.”
“But what—”
“But why—”
Cousin Althea and Uncle Thomas began speaking at the same time. Gabriel held up a staying hand.
“It is a long story,” he said. “If you wish, I will tell it. But the reason Jessica and I will not after all be leaving for Brierley tomorrow is that Manley Rochford, my second cousin, who expects to have my title within the next few weeks, arrived in London last night with his wife.”
“Oh my,” Wren said. “We did not know that, did we, Alexander?”
“We knew he was coming soon,” he said.
Netherby, Gabriel noticed, did not look at all surprised.
“We do wish,” Estelle said, leaning eagerly forward across the table. “To hear your long story, that is, Gabriel. Please do tell it. But I would wager—if it were genteel for ladies to lay bets—that what Mr. Rochford said of you at Elizabeth and Colin’s party was not true at all. But how priceless that you were there to hear him and he did not know you. I suppose he had never seen you before in his life until you appeared here a few weeks ago.”
“Let the man speak, Stell,” her twin said.
“No,” Gabriel said, “those stories were not true. Neither was Anthony Rochford’s supposed familiarity with me. He was about ten years old when I went to America. He had never been to Brierley, where I lived for ten years after the death of my father. Let me be as brief as I can. This is a wedding breakfast, my own and Jessica’s, and I would not wish to shift the focus too far from celebration.”
He told the story with which some people at the table were already familiar.
“I wished to marry before returning to Brierley Hall to take up my position and the responsibilities there that I have neglected for almost seven years,” he said at last. “I wanted the moral support of a countess and the practical support of someone who had had the upbringing and training to run a home that has been without a mistress for a number of years, and to cope with a situation that is sure to be a challenge for a while. And I wanted a wife for whom I felt an affection. I hope I will be a worthy member of this family.”
“I have just realized,” Cousin Althea said, “that Jessica is the Countess of Lyndale.”
After the tense minutes that had preceded her words, everyone laughed.
“I expected and hoped to deal with Manley Rochford at Brierley,” Gabriel said. “It might have been less dramatic. And perhaps less . . . humiliating for his son. However, he has come here with his wife, and I must decide how best to break the news to him that I am alive and back in England.”
“Tell me,” Colin, Lord Hodges, said, “was Manley Rochford involved in any of those things of which you stood accused, Thorne?”
Gabriel had minimized details of the whole nasty episode that had sent him running off to America.
“Yes,” he said now after a brief hesitation.
“I suppose he was the guilty party,” Colin said. “Of one or both charges?”
“Definitely one,” Gabriel said, “probably both. Almost certainly he was implicated, at least as an accessory to the second.”
Uncle Thomas whistled. “Is there any proof?” he asked.
“On the first, yes,” Gabriel said. “I have spoken to the woman who was involved. She has given me a letter that may suffice as evidence. She will testify in person if further confirmation is needed, I believe, though understandably she is reluctant to do so. I would protect her from that if I can.”
“She will do it,” Riverdale said. “Her husband has persuaded her that she must if it becomes necessary.”
Gabriel leveled a look on him.
“And there are two witnesses who will give Lyndale a solid alibi for the time when the murder was committed,” Netherby said.
“Two?” Gabriel raised his eyebrows.
“Miss Beck, of course. But you have perhaps forgotten,” Netherby said, “that the groom who took the wounded young fawn to her remained there for most of the time she and you were setting its broken leg. He is still employed at Brierley.”
“Ah,” Gabriel said, trying to remember. But yes, he seemed to recall that the young groom had been too squeamish to watch but too concerned to go away. He had hovered outside the cottage until the deed was done. “My man fell a bit short on that one, Netherby. Yours apparently did not. But yes. That is quite right. I had forgotten.”
“What we need now,” Aunt Matilda said, “is a plan. Our house, tomorrow afternoon. You will not mind, Charles?”
“Not at all, my love,” he said with great good humor, “provided you do not require my presence. In my experience plans are better left with the ladies.”
“Wise man,” Elizabeth said, twinkling at him. “I will be there, Cousin Matilda. So will Mama.”
“I will indeed,” Cousin Althea said.
“Another toast,” Riverdale said, getting to his feet and raising his glass. “To the Earl and Countess of Lyndale’s remaining in London for a while longer.”
There was a prolonged clinking of glasses and a chorus of voices.
“Jessica,” Gabriel said soon after that, “shall we be the first to leave? With many thanks to everyone who has made this such an unexpectedly festive day, considering the fact that we had decided upon a quiet wedding.”
She set her hand in his and got to her feet. “Yes, thank you all,” she said. “And now, if you will excuse me, I am about to get a little emotional.”
Gabriel tightened his grip on her hand and led her from the room while Netherby, with the mere lifting of one eyebrow and one finger, sent a servant scurrying to call up their carriage—minus all the flowers and all the hardware, Gabriel hoped, for the short journey to his hotel.
Jessica was a bit teary eyed, as she had warned. But he did not believe they were unhappy tears. He hoped not. All their wedding guests streamed out of the dining room after them to wave them on their way. It did not help her composure.
It had been an eventful wedding day. And it was not over yet.
Seventeen
The carriage Gabriel had purchased for his wedding day and the journey to Brierley Hall had indeed been denuded of its floral decorations and metallic noisemakers before it left Archer House. Even the remaining traces of the flower petals with which he and Jessica had been showered outside the church had been thoroughly removed. Those facts saved them from attracting undue attention on their way to his hotel. They did not, however, save them from a grand reception at the hotel itself, where Gabriel had been putting up since his arrival in London.
He had informed the manager that Mrs. Thorne would be joining him to spend the night here. Perhaps that bare announcement had raised an alarm, for during the weeks of his stay he had given no indication that he was a married man. Perhaps the manager, who had bowed to him with the utmost respect this morning, had feared that the hotel was about to fall into disrepute. Whatever the reason, he or his minions had done some swift research and had come up with the astonishing news that Mr. Thorne, a wealthy gentleman late of Boston, America, had that very day married the sister of no less a personage than His Grace, the Duke of Netherby.
The red carpet was out. Literally. It had been rolled down over the wide, shallow steps outside the main doors and across the pavement. It was in such pristine condition when Gabriel’s carriage rocked to a halt at the curb beside it that it seemed probable no other guest had been allowed to set foot on it but had been put to the inconvenience of using a side door.
The ornate brass handles on the outer doors had been polished until they rivaled gold in brightness. The manager and footmen, whose jobs respectively were to register newly arrived guests and carry in their baggage, were suddenly resplendent in uniforms so stiff and spotless that they must be reserved for the most special and rare of occasions. The owner of the hotel, who looked as if he had dressed for an audience at court, stepped out through the doors and executed a bow that would not have shamed him had he been making it to the Prince of Wales himself. As soon as the newly arrived guests had stepped down from their carriage, he delivered a brief, pompous speech, which had been either written inaccurately or memorized poorly. He welcomed to his humble hotel Lady Jessica Archer and Mr. Archer. With one practiced sweep of his arm he invited them to step inside.
And there in the gleaming foyer waited two straight lines of hotel employees, also clad in their special-occasion best, smiling and, at a cue from the manager, applauding. At another cue, the clapping stopped abruptly, the men bowed, and the women curtsied.
They must have spent all day rehearsing, Gabriel thought. They would have done a military parade proud—except for the smiles. He ought to have taken a suite at the Pulteney instead of at this perfectly comfortable but obviously second-tier hotel. At the Pulteney they must be accustomed to the aristocracy and foreign dignitaries flitting in and out. There would have been no fuss or fanfare at all there but, if anything, an even greater discretion than usual to preserve the privacy of their guests.