Trapped at the Altar

“Ah.” Ivor nodded. “Of what family?”

“My name is Maitland, sir. My father has a small holding . . . nothing much but sufficient for our family’s needs.”

“And what brings you to London? It’s an inhospitable place for country folk.”

“I’ve an uncle in Cheapside who said he’d find work for me if I made the journey, but when I got here, he’d gone, taken by the typhus.”

Ivor frowned in sympathy. “So what do you plan now?”

“I have a little money, sir, enough to keep me in simple lodgings while I look for work.” Gabriel found the lies tripping off his tongue with the ease of practice, except that he was not in the least practiced at the art of deception. Ari was so close to him that he imagined he could feel the heat of her skin, inhale her own particular fragrance, but he dared not even look in her direction. The air seemed to crackle between them, and the sensations were so intense that he couldn’t believe others in the kitchen were unaware of them.

“Well, I wish you good fortune,” Ivor said with a friendly nod before turning again to Jeb. “An expression of our thanks, Jeb. Will you see it distributed?” He held out a heavy purse.

Jeb took it with an appreciative nod. He was a man of few words, and Daunt men knew what was owed them.

Ivor turned to Ariadne, surprised by her long silence. It was unlike her to be backwards in offering her own appreciation. She managed a smile, but as she took a step forward, she bent and clicked her fingers at Juno, who came bundling across to her. She picked up the puppy, cradling her against her cheek to obscure her countenance as much as possible, and murmured her own thanks before, with a reiterated “Merry Christmas,” turning and hurrying back upstairs.

Ivor followed more slowly, frowning. Something had happened yet again to disturb his wife’s equanimity. But what? She had been all smiles and merriment as they went down to greet and thank the household who had stood by them through so much danger and discomfort. In fact, it had been Ari’s idea to go at that moment, but then it seemed as if she had been struck dumb by something.

Back in the dining salon, she took her seat at the table again, still holding the puppy, who seemed to be occupying all her attention. Juno licked her face with extravagant adoration, and Ari murmured nonsense to her, playing with her ears and stroking the back of her neck.

“Ari, put the dog down,” Ivor said after a moment. “The table’s no place for an animal.”

Ari gently set the puppy on the carpet and picked up her wine goblet. “You’re right, of course. She’s just so pretty.” Her voice sounded strange to her ears, almost without expression, and she could only hope that Ivor would notice nothing.

It was a vain hope, of course. Ivor noticed everything where she was concerned. He was looking at her far too intently, a frown in his blue eyes. “Is something the matter, Ari?”

She shook her head vigorously. “No . . . no, what could be? It’s Christmas Day.”

“Mmm,” he agreed. “But for some strange reason, Christmas Day now seems rather different from Christmas Day half an hour ago. Something upset you in the kitchen.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ivor. We were only there five minutes. What could have upset me in five minutes?” She could hear the slight note of desperation in her voice and feel the color fluctuating in her cheeks. She took a deep draught of her wine and steadied her breath.

“I really don’t know,” he said. “But something did.” Anything else he’d been about to say was forestalled by Tilly’s reappearance with the maids, carrying a flaming plum pudding and a platter of mince pies. “There’s a good brandy sauce there, too,” she declared, keeping her eyes down as she set the jug on the table. “And some sugared almonds with ginger and orange peel.”

“It smells wonderful, Tilly.” Ariadne felt her composure return as she seemed to step back from the edge of the precipice. If Ivor had continued to press her, she would have betrayed herself somehow, but now the brief respite had given her control again. She could be her old self and hope that he would forget all about that strange interlude.

How could Gabriel possibly be sitting in her own kitchen? She was only just getting her head around the idea that he was in London, that he’d come to find her. She was still trying to find the right words to tell him the next morning that their dreams of a future together could never be more than that, just the dreams of a pair of idealistic young lovers. If she had never seen him again, she thought, she could have lived her life remembering him with love, treasuring her memories of their time together, of the way they had felt about each other, and that would have been the end of it. It would not have been a betrayal of her life with Ivor, simply a part of her own past that made her who she was. The woman whom Ivor loved.

But now Gabriel was here, flesh and blood. The man she had once loved to distraction was sitting in her kitchen, and she could still remember what that love had felt like. The memory now brought an acrid wash of guilt, although she had no reason to feel guilt. It was all in the past, before her commitment to Ivor, and yet the guilt became more intense the longer she sat opposite her husband, trying to behave as if nothing untoward had occurred.

She could not wait until the morning to bring an end to it, she realized. She would break down long before then. “Would you excuse me a moment, Ivor?” She pushed back her chair with an apologetic smile. “I have a need . . .” She gestured vaguely and hurried from the room, crossing the foyer to her bedchamber. Ivor would assume she had need of the commode situated behind a screen in the corner of the chamber. She opened the secretaire and hastily scribbled a few words on a scrap of parchment, folding it tightly, enclosing it in her fist. Then she slipped from the chamber, crept past the dining-room door, and ran down the stairs to the kitchen.

The company was still assembled at the table, and Gabriel, to her relief, was still at his place. “Don’t let me disturb you. I came to get a few scraps for Juno,” she said brightly. “She’s pestering Sir Ivor for plum pudding.” She brushed past Gabriel at the end of the table on her way to the scullery.

Gabriel’s hand closed over the tiny scrap of paper on the table beside his plate as she disappeared. When she returned with a bowl of scraps for the puppy, he was engaged in conversation with one of the kitchen maids.

Ariadne returned swiftly upstairs, reentering the dining salon. “I am sorry for being so long, but I thought to get something for Juno.” She set the bowl on the hearth and then took her place at the table again, reaching for the jug of brandy sauce. “So, is Tilly’s London plum pudding up to Daunt valley standards?” She poured sauce over her pudding and smiled at Ivor over her spoon.





TWENTY-SEVEN





Gabriel excused himself from the kitchen and headed for the privy at the rear of the backyard outside the kitchen door. He stumbled slightly as he fumbled for the door latch. “Take the lantern, man, you’ll end up in the midden otherwise,” one of his dining companions advised with an inebriated hiccup.

Gabriel unhooked the lantern from the wall and stepped outside. The cold air made his head spin, and he cursed his stupidity in drinking as deeply as he had. Sir Ivor’s house was hardly a safe place to let down his guard. He crossed the yard to the noisome lean-to in the far corner and went in, holding his breath against the stench. Holding the lantern high, he unfolded the paper with one hand and looked at the single scrawled line.