There was a great deal of noise and laughter as everyone complied and looked around at one another and pretended astonishment at discovering acquaintances they had not identified until that precise moment.
Manley Rochford, as they had hoped, aroused particular interest now that everyone could admit to knowing who he was. And he was standing, conveniently enough, almost in the center of the ballroom. Well-wishers gathered about him to shake his hand or to curtsy. He smiled graciously upon them all, a rather handsome King Arthur without his mask. His son, still glittering even without his mask, stood smiling at his right hand while his wife hovered at his left.
Gabriel looked steadily at Jessica and offered his arm. They approached that most dense group of guests together and a pathway opened before them, perhaps because the space had been occupied by Avery and Anna, Elizabeth and Colin, Alexander and Wren, Boris and Bertrand, and Sir Trevor and Lady Vickers.
Manley Rochford looked graciously upon the two of them, prepared to receive their homage.
“Hello, Manley,” Gabriel said.
Twenty
Manley looked somewhat startled at being so familiarly addressed. His smile faltered for a moment, but he nodded graciously at them both.
“Mr. Thorne, Papa,” Anthony Rochford said. “I have told you about him. And Mrs. Thorne—Lady Jessica Thorne.”
“Ah, yes.” Manley’s eyes rested upon Jessica. “I understand congratulations are in order. And Mr. Thorne.” He made them a slight bow.
“Gabriel Thorne,” Gabriel said. “How are you, Manley?”
Manley frowned in puzzlement. “Do I know you?” he asked—and Gabriel saw the beginnings of unease in the man.
“A long time ago,” he said. “Thirteen years ago and more.”
He was very aware of Jessica’s hand on his arm. He knew, though he did not turn his head to look, that since removing her mask she had become the cool, poised, aristocratic Lady Jessica. He was aware too that the loud sounds of merriment that had succeeded the unmasking were dying down slightly in their immediate vicinity.
Manley’s handsome face, framed by becomingly graying hair upon which sat a jeweled crown, had paled. His jaws had clamped together—to prevent him from gaping, perhaps.
A definite quiet had fallen upon the crowd around them now, and Gabriel sensed that other people were drawing closer to see what was happening.
“It cannot be.” The words barely passed Manley’s lips. “No.”
“But yes,” Gabriel said. “It can be. And it is.”
Manley’s wife set a hand on his arm. Gabriel could not for the life of him remember her name. She had always been a shadowy figure, along with Philip’s wife. And his aunt too. Women were not highly regarded by most of the Rochford men.
“Manley,” she said, her voice noticeably shaking. “He is Gabriel.”
Manley shook off her arm with open impatience. His nostrils flared. His eyes blazed. “You are dead. This man is an impostor.” He pointed a finger at Gabriel and took one wild look about the crowd, as though searching for an ally. “Marjorie, we are leaving.”
Marjorie. That was her name.
“Papa?” Anthony Rochford said. “This is Mr. Thorne. The man from America I told you about. Mama?”
“Actually,” Gabriel said without taking his eyes off Manley, and he knew now that he had a rather large and avidly listening audience of the cream of society, “I was born with the name Rochford. Gabriel Rochford. I kept that name until I sailed for America thirteen years ago.”
The reaction was worthy of any melodrama. There was a gasp followed by loud murmurings followed in turn by frantic shushing noises.
“Papa?” Anthony Rochford sounded close to panic now.
Manley ignored him. He was having a bit of an onslaught of panic of his own, Gabriel guessed. But he mastered his emotions with a visible effort. He thrust back his shoulders and continued to point a now shaking finger at Gabriel. He looked rather magnificent, actually, with his crown glinting in the candlelight from the chandelier overhead. All he needed to complete the picture was Excalibur clutched in his hand.
“This man,” he said, addressing the crowd, which must have swelled to consist of almost every guest at the ball. “This man, who changed his name and hid away in America, as well he ought, for thirteen years, has now been driven by ambition to consider it worth the risk of returning at the last possible moment to claim his birthright. I am here to stop him in the name of justice.”
“You may try, Manley,” Gabriel said. He was surprised by how little hate he felt for his cousin, who would have sent him to the gallows thirteen years ago and would do it again now. He felt only contempt.
“This man,” Manley said. “This Gabriel Rochford is a murderer.”
There was another wave of sound. Manley waited for it to subside, as it soon did. No one wanted to miss a word. He took a step forward, leaving his wife and son slightly behind him. He knew how to play to an audience, Gabriel thought appreciatively.
“This man,” Manley continued, “ravished the young and innocent daughter of a neighbor of the Earl of Lyndale, his uncle, and left her in disgrace and with child. When confronted by the young lady’s brother and my dear friend, Gabriel Rochford murdered him. He shot him in the back. I witnessed him doing so, though I was too far away, alas, to stop him. Is there a worse or more cowardly crime than to shoot an unarmed man in the back?”
The cream of society obviously did not think so. The murmur this time was uglier. Equally ugly glances were being directed Gabriel’s way.
“He escaped,” Manley said, “before my cousin, the earl, could have him apprehended. A sure admission of guilt.”
“Perhaps we can take this discussion elsewhere,” the loud, overcheerful voice of Lady Farraday said. “Perhaps—”
Manley ignored her. So did everyone else.
“This man should be seized now,” he said, “before he can escape again. Gabriel Rochford is a dangerous man and worthy only of a dark prison cell until he can hang by the neck until he is dead.”
The murmurings were becoming a little louder and a little uglier. The situation was about to turn downright nasty. At any moment now, Gabriel thought, he was going to be tackled and brought down on the ballroom floor, his arms pinioned behind his back. Perhaps it was only social etiquette and the presence of ladies—several of whom looked just as outraged as their men, however—that had prevented its happening already.
“I find it a little strange, Manley,” Gabriel said, and the need to hear what he had to say outweighed the urge to prevent him from fleeing. Silence fell almost immediately. “I find it strange that you saw me shoot Mr. Orson Ginsberg, my friend, in the back. Of course, by your own admission you were some distance away and were perhaps mistaken about the identity of the murderer. You were the only witness, were you?”
“I was not,” Manley said. “My cousin was with me. Your cousin too. Mr. Philip Rochford.”
“Ah,” Gabriel said. “The late Philip Rochford, that would be.”
“He reported what he saw,” Manley said, “to a number of people, including the earl, his father, and representatives of the law. You made a grave mistake in coming back to England, Gabriel Rochford. If you believe your prospects will protect you—”
“I find it strange,” Gabriel said, cutting him off, “because I know of two other witnesses who are willing to swear, in a court of law if necessary, that I was nowhere near the scene of the murder at the time it was committed.”
“Oh yes?” Manley said. He was sneering now and looking about him to encourage his audience to sneer with him. “Produce them, Gabriel Rochford.”
Gabriel felt someone step up behind him and tug lightly on his domino. Jessica looked back and released her hold of his arm in order to step to one side and draw Mary into the gap between them with one arm about her shoulders. The little bareheaded nun had removed her wimple as well as her mask. She looked steadily and reproachfully at Manley.
He recognized her instantly. So did his wife.
“It is Miss Beck,” she said.
“Be quiet, Marjorie,” Manley commanded, his voice harsh. “You are a long way from home, Miss Beck. Gabriel was always a great favorite with you, I recall. But you may wish to consider well before perjuring yourself in order to save him from the gallows.”
“I never have to consider for long before telling the truth, Mr. Rochford,” she said in her calm, deep voice. “Truth is the only thing to be told, at all times. Gabriel was at my cottage for several hours of the afternoon when poor Mr. Ginsberg died. He was helping me tend a wounded fawn one of the grooms had brought me. The groom remained too and remembers. I have a letter from him in safekeeping.”
It was currently locked inside a safe in Netherby’s study at Archer House.
“I have a firm alibi, you see,” Gabriel said. “You were mistaken, Manley. It was not I who murdered Orson.”
“Alibi!” Manley said scornfully. “It is easy to get your friends to say anything you wish, Gabriel. I demand that this man be arrested.”
The crowd no longer seemed so eager to pounce.
“Besides,” Manley cried, trying to reestablish his hold on them, “he is a ravisher as well as a murderer. I daresay he has no alibi for that.”