Dinner at H?tel Bastian was a complete and utter farce.
As Gabby sat at the long oval table inside H?tel Bastian’s modest dining room, she wished for that awful painter from a few nights before to come paint their portrait. She would command him to title it A Meditation in Absurdity, and who knew, she just might allow him to paint on a few bare, dimpled backsides.
The courses had all been served and cleared away, and even though each dish had been delicious, Gabby hadn’t been able to enjoy any of them. She’d sipped her wine and prodded food around on her plates, waiting for something terrible to happen. It was inevitable. Her father and Carrick Quinn had been chitchatting merrily for close to two hours, feeding lies to one another and in turn consuming them with relish.
Apparently, Carrick owned a textile mill, and Nolan was in line to take control of it. Chelle, seated across from Gabby, was playing Nolan’s lovely sister, and Gabby wasn’t sure which was worse: Chelle’s atrocious Scottish accent or the calico-print dress she had clearly not even bothered to press. As for Lord Brickton, he was happily embracing his wife’s new gallery venture. Grayson, seated at Gabby’s left, had been proudly presented as heir to the Brickton earldom and had received an unsettling number of grins from their father. Ingrid, would you believe it, had quite a few beaux waiting for her in London, and Gabby … well, poor Gabby; Lord Brickton was sure Carrick had heard all about her shocking accident.
It was all so embarrassing. The fact that her father seemed to be the only one in the dark was especially mortifying. She almost felt sorry for him.
Nolan, seated to the right of his “sister,” had caught Gabby peeking at him a few times, and she had caught him peeking once or twice as well. There was nothing flirtatious about their glances, though. They were both nervous.
He sat rigid in his seat, his steel-blue eyes watching his father spin lie after lie. Just like Gabby, he was waiting for something to happen.
She jumped when Carrick pushed back his chair.
“If the ladies will allow us to take our leave, I have a bottle of single malt waiting for us, gentlemen.”
They all stood, Nolan and Grayson seeming to do so with added weight. They had to go off to some smoky room and endure more of their fathers’ absurd conversation. Gabby only hoped the Scotch whiskey went down smooth and fast.
Upon exiting the dining room, Carrick led the men off to the right, and Chelle led the ladies to the left. They had seen the parlor when they’d first arrived. It was just off the foyer, and like the rest of the rooms, it had a starched look about it. The furniture was all too new and underused. Proper, but not loved. It was a stage, Gabby knew, and right now they, all of them, were acting.
Chelle closed the foyer door behind her.
“Miss Quinn,” Gabby’s mother called. Chelle plastered on a dainty smile—it looked rather painful—and turned to face Lady Brickton.
“Yes, Lady Brickton?”
Gabby’s mother chose a sofa and lowered herself, patting out the folds of her skirts. “Would you be so kind as to tell me your real name?”
She said it as primly as if she were asking Chelle to ring for tea.
“Thank goodness. I thought I’d go mad if we had to keep playing make-believe,” Gabby said, dropping to the cushion beside her mother.
Chelle let go of the posture suited to a lady and slouched. She tugged at the waist of her dress. “I can’t believe I volunteered for this.” She eyed Lady Brickton bashfully. “My name is Chelle, but it isn’t followed by Quinn.”
“That isn’t surprising, dear. You don’t look a thing like them,” Gabby’s mother said. “And your accent is deplorable.”
Gabby snorted. It really was.
Ingrid moved toward the fireplace, her terra-cotta dress glowing like coals in the firelight. “Chelle, why on earth did Mr. Quinn invite us here?”
Chelle fell back into her soldierly gait as she crossed the room, headed toward a door that servants might use. “He wants to align your families.”
“What?” Ingrid asked.
“How, exactly?” Gabby demanded.
To the queue of questions, Lady Brickton added, “Why?”
Chelle opened the narrow servants’ door and gave a small whistle before turning back to the three Waverly women.
“The old-fashioned way: by marriage. The marriage of Ingrid and Nolan, more specifically. And you, Lady Ingrid, have your magical blood to thank for it.”
Gabby shot up from the sofa. “Ingrid and Nolan?”
“I am not going to marry him!” Ingrid exclaimed just as Nolan’s cousin Rory appeared in the servants’ door.
He wore his standard outfit: trousers, shirtsleeves, and a waistcoat armored with daggers. Lady Brickton gasped at the sight of him.