Lady Parley’s ball in honor of the coming out of her eldest daughter was to be the first truly grand entertainment of the Season, and Jessica was pleased that she had arrived in time to attend it. There had even been time to have the first of her new ball gowns finished and delivered to Archer House, Avery’s home on Hanover Square. It was also her favorite, its narrow yet flowing lines both elegant and flattering to her figure, she believed, its color a deep shade of rose pink she had been looking for in vain for years. Her hand had already been engaged for three sets of dances—the opening set with Mr. Gladdley, who could always be relied upon to make her laugh; the second with Sir Bevin Romley, who for all his large girth and creaking corsets was light on his feet; and the first waltz with Lord Jennings, who despite having no conversation whatsoever beyond his horses always performed the steps with flair.
Jessica had kept all other sets free. There was always the hope, after all, that a new Season would bring new people to town—specifically new gentlemen. And there was always the chance that one of them would be tall, dark, and handsome. And eligible. And interested in her. This year in particular he would be very welcome indeed, this mythical man who would sweep her off her feet and rescue her from sensible plans.
Besides, if she did not keep at least a few sets free until the ball was already in progress, she would never hear the end of it from her disgruntled group of admirers, who would collectively feign heartbreak and heartache and any number of other silly woes. She derived great amusement from them all. It was impossible to take them seriously when they tried so hard to outdo one another in their ardor—most of it deliberately theatrical and not really meant to be taken seriously anyway. Which left the question: Were any of them serious about her? Was she in danger of being left on the shelf after all? But she would not believe that any such ghastly fate awaited her.
She looked forward to the Parley ball with some eagerness, just as she always did at the start of a new Season.
Gabriel arrived in London two days after disembarking from one of his own ships in Bristol. He was unfamiliar with England’s capital, having spent a total of perhaps two weeks there during his growing years. He expected, moreover, that he would know absolutely no one, though there was Sir Trevor Vickers, his father’s friend and his own godfather, who had been a member of Parliament at one time and might still be. Regardless of any reluctance on his part, however, he had chosen to come to London rather than set out immediately for Derbyshire and Brierley Hall. There was business to be done here.
He took a suite of rooms at a decent hotel and spent a busy week interviewing and engaging a good lawyer and a land agent. He was obliged to be frank with them about his identity, of course, though he did not want it generally known yet. He wanted first to get a feel for the situation he might find himself in when he was no longer merely Mr. Gabriel Thorne. He spent many more hours transforming himself into a respectable-looking English gentleman. He endured a tedious time with a reputable tailor and a barber the tailor recommended, along with a boot maker and a haberdasher and a jeweler. He interviewed a number of men sent him by an agency and chose a superior sort of individual named Horbath—no first name was provided—to be his valet. He acquired a horse after being directed to Tattersalls. And he discovered that Sir Trevor Vickers was not only still a member of Parliament but was also a senior member of the cabinet now.
Gabriel called upon him and Lady Vickers one morning and was fortunate enough to find them both at home.
“Rochford?” Sir Trevor said when he and his wife joined Gabriel in the salon where he had been put to wait. The baronet gazed at his visitor in open astonishment. “Gabriel Rochford? But bless my soul, you must be he. You look just like your father.”
“I go by my mother’s name of Thorne now,” Gabriel explained as he submitted to a very firm and prolonged handshake, though it was the name Rochford he had sent up with Sir Trevor’s butler. “But yes, sir. I am Gabriel.” He bowed to Lady Vickers, who had also looked astonished at first, though now she was beaming at him, her hands clasped to her bosom.
“Everyone has long assumed you are dead,” Sir Trevor said bluntly. “It is about to be made official. But bless my soul, here you are, looking very much alive. Where the devil have you been hiding all these years? Ah, I beg your pardon, my dear. It seemed after the death of Lyndale and his son that you had fallen off the face of the earth. No one has been able to find any trace of you.”
“I have been in America, sir,” Gabriel told him.
“America. As bold as can be,” Sir Trevor said, shaking his head slowly. “Yet no one found you there. You are going by your mother’s name, you say? I suppose no one thought to search America for a Gabriel Thorne. But whyever would you do a thing like that?”
“My name has been legally changed,” Gabriel told him, and explained how it had come about. He did not say that he had been using the name even before Cyrus adopted him and even on his passage to America.
“Good God,” Sir Trevor said, suddenly struck by a thought. “Young Rochford has recently arrived in town—the son of the man who is expecting to be the Earl of Lyndale by the end of the summer. Manley Rochford, is it? Or Manford? No, Manley. His son is busy introducing himself to society as the prospective heir, and it is my understanding that society is opening its arms to him. I believe he is a personable young man. The father is expected to join him here soon. I understand grand celebrations are being planned for later in the Season, are they not, Doris?”
“Indeed they are,” his wife said, “premature as it may seem. I have not met Mr. Anthony Rochford yet, but he is said to be very handsome and charming. He is being invited everywhere. But, goodness me, Mr.—My lord—Oh, may I call you Gabriel since I remember you well as a small boy? Goodness me, that young man is about to have the shock of his life. He is going to be overjoyed when he discovers that you are alive after all.”
Gabriel very much doubted it. So, from the look on his face, did Sir Trevor. Well, but this was interesting. Manley Rochford’s son was actually in London, and he was waiting for the arrival of his father and getting ready to celebrate his accession as the new Earl of Lyndale? He should, Gabriel supposed, save them some embarrassment, not to mention expense, and take steps without further delay to disabuse them of that notion and make his identity generally known. But he had hoped first to discover for himself if the prospective new earl and his heir were as bad as Mary had made them out to be. Not that Mary was prone to either exaggeration or spite.
“I would rather he not be told,” he said. “For a short while, at least.”
They both looked at him in surprise.
“But—” Sir Trevor began.
Gabriel held up a hand. “If the mere arrival of my cousin in town is causing a stir,” he said, “one can only imagine what my sudden appearance here will cause, as though I had risen from the dead. Have mercy on me, sir, ma’am. I have only recently arrived from America, where I have spent the past thirteen years. I am already bewildered at the strangeness of being here. I need some time to find my land legs.”
And perhaps . . . Well, was there a chance, however remote, that what Mary had told him really was distorted, exaggerated, a bit biased? Could even the Manley he remembered be cruel enough to evict her from her precious cottage when she had nowhere else to go? Her nieces, her sister’s children, had never had anything to do with her, as far as Gabriel remembered. Now it seemed he had an unexpected opportunity to observe Anthony Rochford for himself, the young man who had supposedly been throwing his weight about and making himself obnoxious at Brierley. A charming, personable young man, according to what Sir Trevor and Lady Vickers had heard. Was it possible that before winter came on he would be able to return home to Boston and forget about this whole unwanted distraction?
He was very willing to grasp at any frail straws.
“I do, however,” he added, “need some entrée into society. It seems unlikely the ton would afford even a passing glance at Mr. Gabriel Thorne, merchant trader from Boston.”
“Is that who you have been all these years?” Sir Trevor asked, frowning and shaking his head again. “When you ought to have been here for almost seven years past as the Earl of Lyndale? There is clearly something I do not understand about your way of thinking. I suppose we can introduce you to the ton as our godson. My name carries some weight in this town.”
“You forget, Trevor,” Lady Vickers said, “that I had some family connection to Gabriel’s mother. I never did understand quite what it was and neither did she. We had a good laugh about it once, I remember. Third cousin twice removed, I believe it was, or something absurd like that. But without having to resort to any outright lie, Gabriel, we can present you to society as our godson and my kinsman. And I do boast a viscount as a second cousin. Trevor, of course, has his own credentials—a baronetcy and an influential position in the government. Leave it to us. You will be accepted by even the highest sticklers before we are done with you.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Gabriel said, grinning at her. “I would much appreciate your help.”