Trapped at the Altar

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Gabriel was, in fact, standing opposite the house on Dacre Street, looking up at its impenetrable front, windows and doors firmly closed. He didn’t know what he was doing here. He would see her tomorrow, as arranged. Instead, he was jeopardizing everything by standing here in the open, gawking at her house. What if her husband were to find out? Ivor Chalfont was, to all intents and purposes, a Daunt with the same bloodthirsty inclinations of the whole tribe, if Ari was to be believed, and he had no reason to doubt her. She had sent him away for his own protection when she was officially unattached, but it would be so much more dangerous to seek her out now that she was actually married, another man’s legal property. Gabriel had no wish to die on the end of Sir Ivor Chalfont’s sword.

But he had to admit that the gentleman he had seen did not look in the least like a bloodthirsty outlaw. His features were refined, his figure elegant, although the strength of his frame beneath the magnificent clothes was unmistakable. And he showed a tenderness towards Ariadne that no one could mistake.

As Gabriel stood there, the front door opened, and the maid he had seen yesterday emerged onto the street. She set down her burden, which turned out to be the very small spaniel puppy. As soon as its paws touched ground, it darted forward with an excited yelp, only to be brought up short by the ribbon around its neck.

The maid reined the dog in and started walking along the street, keeping the puppy at her heel. Gabriel hesitated for barely a moment before he started to stroll across the street towards her. “Excuse me, mistress.”

Tilly stopped to stare at her accoster, surprised and wary. “Sir?”

“Forgive me, but I believe you work for Sir Ivor Chalfont and his lady.” He smiled with what he hoped was reassurance. He couldn’t believe what he was doing, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He had come so far in his search for Ariadne that nothing seemed too risky anymore.

“And what if I do?” Tilly demanded cautiously. He struck her as a rather shy and harmless young man, but appearances could be deceiving. She jerked the puppy back to heel.

“Pretty little thing,” Gabriel observed, bending to scratch between the puppy’s ears.

“Present from the King ’imself,” Tilly declared. “Gave it to my mistress.” She continued to regard him with the same wariness.

“Your mistress must be quite a favorite at court.”

Tilly nodded. “Aye, and she’s there this minute, if you must know.” She frowned. “And just what d’you know of Sir Ivor and Lady Chalfont?”

Gabriel hesitated before saying, “I used to know Lady Chalfont once, back in Somerset . . . before she was Lady Chalfont.”

Tilly looked astounded. “You wasn’t of the valley,” she stated.

“No. I saw her once or twice when she came up to the cliff.” He offered a placatory smile, improvising rapidly. “She once rescued me from a spring trap. Foolishly, while I was hunting, I wandered across the boundary of my father’s farm and strayed onto Lord Nesbitt’s land. I didn’t know where his gamekeepers set the traps.” He gave a rueful shrug. “I don’t know what I would have done if Lady Chalfont, Ari as she called herself then, had not come along.”

Tilly reflected. She knew that Miss Ari frequently stole away from the valley, up the cliff path, despite orders to the contrary. The young man’s story was quite plausible and his Somerset accent true enough. She regarded him with her head on one side, her considering gaze shrewd. “Was it you my lady left the note for?”

Gabriel nodded. “I saw her at the theatre the other night, but we weren’t able to speak properly, although she did see me. I followed her here, and that’s when she left the note. She wanted to know if I needed anything, if I was new to London and needed any help.”

That sounded like Miss Ari, Tilly decided. If she saw someone she had once known in need, she would offer help. But why was she doing it in secret? It didn’t smell right to Tilly, and perhaps, she thought, it would be wise to keep this young man under her own eye. If Miss Ari was getting herself into deep waters, she might need a hand to pull her out. One thing Tilly knew for sure, Sir Ivor would stand for no nonsense if his wife was up to her tricks, however well-meaning. Sir Ivor was not a man to deceive, however innocent it might be.

“And do you need help?” she demanded.

Gabriel shook his head. “Not really, but back in Somerset, I didn’t have a chance to thank her properly. She said she had no time to talk and ran off before I could discover anything but her name. Her note said to meet her in the park tomorrow.” He offered a hesitant smile. “I own it will be pleasant to see a familiar face, to talk with someone from back home. London is a big place.”

“That it is,” Tilly agreed. Her eyes were on the puppy, rooting happily in the cracks between the cobbles. She could quite understand what the young man must be feeling. She was homesick herself often enough.

“I know I should wait until tomorrow to see her,” Gabriel said with disarming frankness. “But ’tis Christmas Day, and I miss my family. I thought perhaps if I could just hear a familiar voice, like yours, mistress, I might find it easier to . . . oh, foolish nonsense.” He cut himself off with a shrug. “I daresay you’ll be celebrating Christmas with much merriment. Roast goose, perhaps?”

Tilly nodded. “Oh, that an’ all the rest,” she said. “Pies and puddings. Once they come back from the palace, the feast will begin.” She stopped as the puppy squatted on a scraggly patch of grass to relieve herself. “That’s a good girl,” she said approvingly, turning back to the house. “I’d best be getting along now, sir. Still a lot to do in the kitchen.”

“Yes, of course.” He half turned to leave. “A Merry Christmas to you, mistress.”

Tilly lifted her hand to the door latch. “And a Merry Christmas to you, sir.” She stood for a moment with her hand on the latch, then said abruptly, “If you’ve a mind to take your Christmas dinner in the kitchen with us, you’d be welcome, sir. If you’ve nowhere better to go.”

Tilly was naturally warmhearted, and the man was lonely and homesick and far too thin and pale. He was a Somerset lad, a farmer’s boy, although, judging by his raiment, he came from well-to-do farming stock, and whatever his connection with Miss Ari, it gave him the right of Somerset hospitality. There was more than enough to go around in her kitchen. And maybe, Tilly thought, she might pick up some enlightening information as the wine flowed freely at the table.

Gabriel heard himself thanking her, introducing himself, and accepting the invitation, even though his rational self screamed that it was madness. He was walking into the proverbial lion’s den. But the temptation to be under the same roof as Ari was irresistible. She was at the palace right now, and even after she returned, if he stayed in the kitchen, there would be no danger of them meeting. Grand ladies, as Ariadne so clearly was now, did not frequent kitchens. But he might be able to catch a glimpse, maybe even get some inkling of what her life with her husband was like. The servants might talk a little or respond to a gentle prod.

“Come you in, then, Master Gabriel,” Tilly said briskly. “There’s a seat by the range and a cup of sack.”

Gabriel followed her into the square hall and through a door at the rear leading down a narrow flight of stairs to the kitchen, filled with the aromas of roasting goose and apples and steaming puddings and a constant mist of flour rising from the long table, where a young girl in cap and apron was rolling pastry for mince pies. For a moment, he was overcome with a wash of homesickness, for the life he had once led in the square Somersetshire farmhouse, where talk of war and rebellion was generally muffled in the tankards of scrumpy and October ale.