“No doubt that was why Appleby demanded it, to cause us all the most pain and suffering.” He set her at arm’s length, pinning her with his intent gaze. “Tell me, Mama, where does Lord Appleby live?”
“Gabriel…”
“Where?”
She told him, caught between loyalty to her husband and worry for her son, and fearing for them both. Gabriel gave her another quick hug of appreciation and made for the stairs, causing a maid to jump to one side as he hurried down them. And then he was throwing open the door to the street and slamming it shut behind him.
He’d walked straight out into a soaking rainstorm.
As he stood, drenched, staring up at the gray sky, he felt as if his whole world was disintegrating around him. His father believed he wasn’t his father, his mother insisted he was, and Appleby was punishing him either way. Well, he wasn’t taking it lying down. He’d force His Lordship to return his house and land, and at this moment—he clenched his fists—he was quite capable of violence.
Gabriel set off in the direction of the Mayfair home of Lord Rudyard Appleby, a man he’d never heard of until a few moments ago. A man who might possibly be his father.
He knew the sensible thing to do would be to turn around and go back to his home until he cooled down. But he wasn’t feeling sensible; he kept walking. By the time he reached the prestigious Mayfair address, the rain had slowed to a miserable drizzle. He stood, staring up at the house, his clothes soaked and heavy, his fair hair plastered to his head while trickles of water ran down his face and into his eyes. In contrast to his personal hell, bright light spilled from the windows and the open door, and the happy chatter of voices flowed out into the evening.
Lord Appleby was holding a party for his fashionable friends. Well, he thought darkly, let them enjoy themselves while they might. He would have it out with him.
As he crossed the threshold a liveried footman blocked his path, but one glance at Gabriel’s expression sent the young man backing up. Satisfied, Gabriel strode on, his sodden shoes leaving wet patches on the priceless rugs, through dazzling halls and rooms heavy with the scent of flowers and expensive perfume. The brilliance of gaslight was everywhere, replacing the now outdated candles and lamps, as if Lord Appleby was determined to show everyone he was a modern and progressive man.
One room held a large model of the Great Exhibition building, nicknamed the Crystal Palace because it was built of glass and metal. He paused to stare, and then he remembered what his mother had said, and realized that he’d heard of Lord Appleby after all. He was one of the manufacturers who’d won a contract to help construct the already famous building.
“Sir? I must ask you to leave.”
He turned. Another footman, this one older and more officious-looking, his mouth pursed, his censorious gaze taking in the state of Gabriel’s clothes. There was a knot of startled-looking guests hovering in a doorway behind him.
“I want to see Lord Appleby,” Gabriel said.
The footman gaped at him. “I’m sorry, sir, but that is quite impossible.”
Impatiently Gabriel pushed past him and into the stunned group, grasping the arm of an elderly gentleman with a red-veined face. “Tell me where I can find Lord Appleby,” he demanded, in a way that made it clear his patience was ending. The old gentleman pointed a shaky finger diagonally across the room, toward a closed door.
As Gabriel walked toward it, leaving muddy tracks on the fine Turkish carpet, he heard a low hum of disapproval and didn’t care. The servant was hurrying behind him, bleating something about “not yet!” but no one could stop him from flinging open the door.
The scene inside was not what he’d expected.
They were clasped in each other’s arms. The man, his dark hair turning to gray, his stocky body made elegant by perfectly fitting evening wear. The woman, half turned away, dressed in white. She was bowed backward in the clasp of his arms, her throat arched, curls of her glossy brown hair tangled with pearls. From this angle there was something very erotic in the creamy line of her throat and the swell of her breasts above the low, beaded bodice.
Just for a moment Gabriel forgot why he was there.
And then he heard the shocked silence behind him turn into a roar of excited chatter. Too late the couple realized they were being observed. The woman gasped and pushed her companion away. With her back still turned, she ran from her ruin, exiting through a farther door.
The man didn’t run. He smoothed his cravat, a little smile playing about his lips, as if he wasn’t in the least sorry. His gaze, so dark as to be almost black, passed over the shocked faces to the footman. He raised an eyebrow.
Was this his father? Was there some resemblance?
“I’m sorry, sir,” the servant gabbled, “I was waiting until the signal, but this gentleman burst in before I could—”
Appleby held up a hand to stop him. His gaze fixed on Gabriel. “Do you want something?” he demanded in a voice that still held more than a hint of Northern England.
Gabriel stepped inside the room and slammed the door behind him. Lord Appleby looked faintly alarmed.
“You aren’t one of my guests,” Appleby said, frowning now. “I’ll ask you again: What do you want?”
“I want to know why you’ve stolen my inheritance.”
Lord Appleby’s alarm turned to surprise, and then amusement. Somehow that was more shocking to Gabriel than downright anger. Appleby reached for a box on a small table and found a cigar inside, lighting it. “Gabriel, I presume.”
“Yes.” Gabriel towered over Appleby, but it didn’t feel like an advantage.