She would tell her that an argument with Gray had meant the end of his visits, but that they now had a house of their own, Gaby decided as she whisked powder over her cheeks and pinned back her hair. And then, somehow, she had to decide what she was going to do next. The idea of trying to find a father for her baby now seemed not only difficult but, emotionally, impossible, she thought as the sound of a key in the outer door warned her that Jane had returned.

  Deep breath, chin up, she told herself as she opened her bedchamber door. You did the right thing, telling him no. You did it too late, but it was right. Somehow that was going to have to suffice.

  * * *

  Gray turned the phaeton into the mews without conscious thought. Somehow he had arrived home and it might have been through a riot or a snowstorm for all he had noticed. He snapped back to attention as one of the grooms ran out and, behind him, Henry. There was a post-chaise standing by the stable, unhorsed, and a pair of postilions lounging against the mounting block.

  ‘Thank God,’ Henry said as he reached the phaeton. His face was screwed up with anxiety. ‘I had no idea where to find you or how long you’d be.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Gray tossed the reins to the groom and got down.

  ‘A message from Winfell. Little James fell from a tree and they can’t get him to regain consciousness. Your mother sounds frantic.’

  ‘When?’ Gray demanded. ‘Is the man still here?’

  ‘The day before yesterday. Your mother sent the message down by the post-chaise so there would be no delay getting back with reliable changes. Forgive me for opening it, but it was so obviously a crisis.’ Henry gestured towards the vehicle. ‘The horses will be rested for the first stage back, they came in just after you left this morning.’

  ‘Hitch up,’ Gray shouted at the postilions. ‘I will leave within the hour. You did right,’ he added to Henry as they strode inside. ‘Find Tomkins,’ he snapped at the butler, who was in the hall.

  ‘He is already packing, my lord. Cook is assembling a hamper so you will not need to stop to eat.’

  Gray was already halfway up the stairs, Henry at his heels. He wanted to stop, to howl at his own impotence. He was almost two hundred and fifty miles away from his five-year-old son, who might already be dead, and his little daughter, who would be terrified. And his mother, still in mourning for her husband. And he could do nothing except leave as fast as possible and not stop until he got to Winfell. And then comfort and grieve? Or... He shook his head, angry at himself. Speculation and false hope were weakening. In twenty-four hours, accidents aside, he could be there.

  ‘Hotchkiss came round, said he had a message from you.’

  Gray kept going into his bedchamber. ‘Tompkins!’

  ‘Here, my lord. All packed. I have my own valise ready, as well.’

  ‘No. Stay here.’ He couldn’t bear the thought of being cooped up with someone else in a chaise for that long, having to maintain his composure in front of another human being. ‘Henry, tell Hotchkiss to deal direct with Miss Frost over the house in Half Moon Street. She’s at Grillon’s.’

  ‘Of course.’ Henry waited while he snatched up the bag from the end of the bed and followed him downstairs. ‘If there is anything I can do while you’re away, just write. I’ll pray for you all.’

  That was the last thing Gray was conscious of before he strode out of the back door and into the mews. One of the footmen was stowing a hamper in the chaise, the postilions were mounting up, two of them for the four horses. He could always rely on his mother, they’d make the best possible time. ‘Shortest route to Harrogate,’ he ordered as he slammed the door and the coach lurched into motion.

  * * *

  The next morning breakfast was an almost-silent meal. Jane kept her attention firmly on a book in German on rock formations that she had found in the circulating library and tactfully remarked neither on the dark circles under Gaby’s eyes nor asked for details of her falling-out with Gray.

  Eventually she took herself off, announcing that she had a ticket to visit the British Museum and assumed Gaby would not be interested.

  Gaby agreed that indeed she would not, wished her a pleasant day and rang to have the table cleared, keeping back a cup of coffee.

  She sipped it while she fought the strong inclination to book passage on the next ship back to Porto, however strange it might seem to her friends and neighbours for her to return so swiftly. She would settle on the house, take it for two months. Then she would go and call on her aunt, permit herself to be fussed over and, somehow, manage to break her false betrothal to Gray whilst not encouraging Aunt Henrietta’s matchmaking schemes for George. If she had no social life, she could meet no gentlemen and if she met no one there was little hope for her plan.

  If it has any hope at all, she thought, cupping her chin in one hand and stirring far too much sugar into her coffee.

  There was a tap at the door. Had she ordered more coffee and forgotten about it? ‘Come in!’

  One of the hall porters entered. ‘Gentleman at the front desk asked if he might call, Miss Frost.’ He proferred a small salver with a card. ‘He apologises for the early hour, but begs the favour of a brief word.’

  Gaby frowned at the rectangle of pasteboard. Henry Pickford. How very strange that Gray’s cousin should come to call at that hour. ‘Please ask him to come up directly.’

  The porter escorted him in a few minutes later, then left, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Miss Frost, I do apologise for calling so early.’ Henry shook hands and looked around. ‘Ah. You appear to be alone. Forgive me, no doubt you would prefer to come downstairs and talk in one of the public rooms. If you can spare me a few minutes, that is?’

  ‘There is no need, Mr Pickford, I feel quite safe with you.’ He blushed, but took the seat she gestured to as she sat down. ‘May I ring for some coffee for you?’

  ‘Thank you, no. I came merely to let you know that Lord Leybourne has had to leave town for a few days. I know he has charged Mr Hotchkiss to speak to you directly about the house in Half Moon Street, but he left in such haste that he was not able to let you know about his absence and I felt you might perceive it as some unintended neglect.’

  ‘Nothing is wrong, I hope?’ Surely Gray had not fled London because of her refusal to become his lover? He was neither a man who sulked, nor one who lost control of his temper, she was certain. Henry Pickford was looking uncomfortable and she immediately apologised. ‘But I am prying into family business.’

  ‘Not at all. You are concerned, I understand that. It is a family matter of some urgency, but I do not know the details and I am not in a position to speak of it.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Forgive me, Miss Frost. I realise this is not something that one should say to a lady, but you seem a little pale. Might I offer you my escort for a stroll in the park, perhaps?’

  ‘I—’

  I want to go back to bed and pull the covers over my head and pretend none of this has happened. I want to be back home at the quinta with nothing to worry about but the price of barrel staves and an outbreak of mould. I want Gray. And I do not want to dissolve into a wet puddle of feebleness and throw away everything the Frosts have worked for over the decades. Everything I worked for.

  ‘Thank you, I would appreciate your escort very much, Mr Pickford.’ Gray, whose judgement she trusted, thought well of his cousin, considered him an honest and honourable man. He was a perfect, safe escort.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘When do you expect to move house, Miss Frost?’ Henry tucked her hand under his arm as they strolled through the north-eastern gate of Green Park.

  ‘Within a few days, I hope, Mr Pickford.’ They paused on the brink of the reservoir and looked out towards Westminster Abbey in the distance. ‘The air is very smoky again today.’

  ‘It must seem unpleasant after Portugal. I imagine clear blue skies and sunshine every day,’ he said as they began to walk again.

  ‘Most days it is like that, but it can rain. It can be cloudy and grey and we have frosts, too, sometimes. You are bound for the north-east coast of America, if I recall. That has cold, snowy winters.’

  ‘I may yearn after sunshine but I aim to find work where the commercial heart of the country is,’ he explained earnestly. ‘I have a living to earn.’

  ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘I am waiting to hear back from a number of businesses to whom I have written. Various trading concerns, you understand. Gray has been very helpful in finding recommendations and having checks carried out for me. I cannot afford to start off on the wrong foot with an unreliable company, there is too much at stake. I mean to make my life out there, not merely go for a few years.’

  ‘Marry and start a family in a new country?’ She liked his earnest enthusiasm.

  ‘Indeed.’ His voice was wistful for a moment. ‘It will be years before I can afford to support a wife and children, but that is my ambition.’

  He’s a lonely man, Gaby thought. But not one to grab at happiness without thought for his responsibilities.

  ‘If you are able to investigate the market for port in Boston and the area, then I would be very interested to hear your thoughts on the matter,’ she said slowly, thinking it through as she spoke. ‘If I could export, then I would need an agent. But exporting port long distances by sea has proved tricky in the past. I can make no promises, you understand.

  ‘No, of course not.’ Pickford slowed down and turned to look at her. ‘If you can tell me more about the things I need to find out, you’ll find me a fast learner.’

  ‘Come to dinner tonight,’ Gaby offered. ‘My companion, Miss Moseley, will be there, naturally, and we can eat in the hotel dining room and talk.’

  ‘Thank you, I should like that.’

  They began to stroll again, talking of other matters, but Gaby felt herself calm a little at the prospect of something positive to do, some aim that had nothing to do with Gray. What had sent him from London at such speed? She hoped there was nothing wrong... Then she reminded herself that Lord Leybourne was none of her business any longer, that he wanted nothing more to do with her and that she should feel the same about him.

  And yet she could not help but worry.

  * * *

  Gray forced himself to sit still as the chaise jolted northward at ten miles an hour. There was nothing else to do. He couldn’t drive—that was in the hands of the pair of postilions, the new ones who had taken over at the last change at Biggleswade. He could not give in to the urge to abandon the chaise, hire a horse and gallop on because he had no way of knowing whether he could get reliable, fast remounts. Besides, there was no virtue in arriving home saddle-sore and exhausted.

  He was an adult. He was responsible, so he had to be sensible and calm and think of something, anything, but the limp body of a small child. He should try to sleep so as to be rested to face whatever he found when he reached Winfell. He had to be strong for his mother and for Joanna and for himself, but when he forced the useless speculation and worry to the back of his mind all he could think about was Gabrielle and her insane plan to secure her precious quinta.

  Gray knew he should value her honesty, the fact that she listened to her conscience and had been—finally—open with him. It did not help at all that he could feel nothing but hurt and resentment and a regret that he knew diminished him. Frustrated desire was one thing and, of course, no gentleman would try to persuade a reluctant woman against her will, however much he knew she yearned to give in. But the depth of his reaction warned him that this was more than simple sexual desire. He was falling for Gabrielle. Had fallen.

  And she was a woman who was resolved not to wed. Ever. A woman who intended to get herself with child by some stranger, who would risk so much—her feelings, her safety, her reputation.

  Gray shifted across the seat as though finding a different viewpoint through the glass in front of him could help. He could get her with child, he could keep her secrets—and... No. Not and. The word was but. But he could never, ever, give up a child of his to be raised a stranger, he knew that as clearly as he knew his own reflection in the mirror.

  And how could he think about another child when he might have already lost one of his, his little Jamie. Bright as cut steel, active as a puppy, funny and loving and brave and, if he was conscious, wanting his father. Joanna would certainly be wanting him. He had convinced himself that at their age they needed the feminine influence of their grandmother more than they needed his daily presence. Now guilt for that ate away at him, a gnawing sensation beneath the worry. Was he a bad father? Could he add that to the thoroughly merited charge of being a poor husband?

  You only married me because you thought it your duty, Portia had spat at him once, making duty sound like an accusation of the vilest kind of depravity. You ruined my life and then you think it can all be made well again with a wedding ring. Well, my lord, it cannot.

  She had written to him when she had discovered that she was pregnant and the letter, much battered and soiled, had reached him in some remote Spanish village, months after she had sent it.

  I hope you will be satisfied now. You have done your duty, married the Wronged Woman, planted an heir on her. The world will say what a fine fellow Colonel Graystone is. What a fine earl he will make one day.

  At least I will have the raising of your son. Perhaps I can work out where your mother went wrong and rear a boy with a heart.

  The chaise began to slow. Eaton Socon, Gray saw as he looked through the window and recognised the familiar shabby exterior of the White Horse. He resisted the temptation to pull out his pocket watch even though the passage of time felt as though he was walking through mud with blistered heels.

  Portia never had the opportunity to raise her son. Gray was not at all certain that she had even been aware that she had borne him, or his twin sister. When a man returns from the wars eighteen months after his wife dies in childbed, no one is very eager to describe the harrowing details to him.

  The watch was in his hand, although he had no recollection of taking it from the fob pocket. He watched the hand tick round for five minutes, then the chaise lurched into motion again and he tried to make his mind a blank. Strangely the blankness produced the image of a pair of expressive brown eyes, not scornful or imperious or even heavy with sensuality, but warm with sympathy and concern and understanding.

  Gabrielle.

  * * *

  Gaby had confessed her scheme to bear a child to Gray and that had been a disaster. She would have said—been prepared to swear to it—that she would die rather than admit it to anyone else. It was a shock to find herself, only three days after he had left so mysteriously for the north, curled up on the sofa in her new drawing room and telling Henry, as Mr Pickford had rapidly become, all about it.

  Quite how it had happened she was not certain. She was heartsick over Gray and he was, clearly, anxious about his cousin and they could not talk of him—he for reasons of discretion, she because it was all still too raw. Yet, they seemed to need each other’s company and Henry threw himself into helping her move into the new little house.

  They talked of the wine trade and travel, of Henry’s family problems a little and rather more of his ambitions for the future. Jane had dismissed Henry early on as harmless and took no pains to chaperone them on either walks or long conversations, or when Henry spent an afternoon walking backwards and forward, shifting the hired furniture about in the receptions rooms until Gaby was satisfied.

  And now with everything to her liking and an excellent dinner behind them she kicked off her satin slippers, curled her feet up under her, leaned her chin on her hand and smiled at Henry. She felt slightly sleepy and very comfortable.

  ‘There must be someone in Portugal waiting impatiently for your return,’ Henry said, as he settled back in an armchair with a glass of port in his hand.

  ‘My staff, I suppose. But my manager writes regularly—I had a letter only today. All is well.’

  ‘No.’ He smiled and shook his head at her. ‘That’s not what I meant. Some man. A special man.’

  Gaby shook her own head in return. ‘No one. How can I marry? If I do, Frost’s becomes his, and I lose all control.’

  He frowned over that. ‘It would be the normal thing, would it not? You could deed the business to some relative if it is important to keep it in the family name.’

  ‘I have no relatives, none I would want to have control of the quinta, at least. No, you do not understand.’ Perhaps she had drunk too many glasses of wine at dinner, she thought as she began to explain both her idea and her problem to the man sitting opposite her, nodding sympathetically in the candlelight.

  ‘Impossible, I know,’ Gaby finished. ‘How to find the right man? And how to ensure his silence? And then how to produce a plausible proof of the wedding and cause of death? I should not even think of it.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Henry neither laughed, nor exclaimed in horror. ‘Tricky, of course, but the marriage itself is no problem. Nor is making you a widow.’

  ‘What?’ She stared at him, realised her mouth was unbecomingly open and closed it with a snap.

  ‘Murder, of course,’ Henry said. Then he did laugh. ‘I am teasing you. No, but the marriage part is easy. When you find the man he needs to procure a special licence. A special, not an ordinary one, mind. That enables you to be married without banns being called and anywhere you choose.’