A Regency Gentleman's Passion: Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy / A Not So Respectable Gentleman?

Could he forget?

She took a breath. “He became a cuirassier to get revenge for—for what happened at Badajoz. What happened to his father. And to me. All these years Claude has not forgotten any of it. Fighting the English in the war was supposed to be the revenge, but, alors, you know what happened.”

“Why come to England, then, if he hates it so?” Wouldn’t Claude want to stay away and keep his mother away, as well?

She wrung her hands. “He remembers one name from that day—Edwin Tranville. He has come to En gland to kill him.”

Edwin Tranville. Gabe pressed his fingers against his temple. Damned Edwin Tranville. “What has this to do with me, Emmaline?”

Her eyes pleaded. “I need you to find Claude and stop him.”

What a fool he was. She’d come to England for her son, not for him.

He gave her a level look. “What makes you believe I would help you?”

She lowered her gaze so that her long dark lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. “Oh, Gabriel. Who else can help me? I cannot go to—to the gendarmerie and tell them my son wants to kill a man. I might as well send Claude to a guillotine. I came to you, because I do not know anyone else.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “I know only you.”

Her emotion shook him. He paced in front of her. “Well, I cannot help you.” His response was firm. “I have my own life to attend to, Emmaline. I am waiting for a new commission. Word could come any day and, when it comes, I must be here or the position will go to someone else.”

“You are not in the army any more?” Her gaze flicked over his uniform coat and her brow creased as if in confusion.

“My regiment was disbanded. I’m on half-pay.”

“Half-pay? What is that?” Her eyes widened suddenly and her voice rose. “Do you need money, Gabriel? I can pay you money to help me.”

“I do not need money,” he snapped. What he needed she could not give him, not without forsaking her son. “The army pays half of a salary when a soldier is idled, but do not concern yourself. I have plenty of money.”

“Even so …” she fingered the front of her dress “… I will pay for your help.”

Did she think he would accept money for such a thing? It galled him that she would presume they could make some sort of business arrangement after what they’d had together.

What he thought they’d had.

“How old is Claude now?” he asked.

She looked puzzled. “He is now eighteen years.”

“I was in the army, taking care of myself when I turned eighteen. Claude is his own man now. He must act on his own and accept the consequences.”

She seized his arm. “You do not understand. He will be caught. He will hang for murder.”

Her touch radiated through him. “That is his decision.”

“Non, non, Gabriel,” she cried. “You must stop him. He cannot hang. I cannot bear it.”

Gabe felt himself weaken. Claude was her whole world, more important to her than anything or anyone else. Gabe had carried Claude off the Waterloo battlefield for that reason—for her—even while the cries of countless other wounded men had filled his ears. He did not regret doing so, but how many times was he expected to rescue Claude for her?

He closed his hands around her arms and lifted her away from him. He must think of himself now. Not of Emmaline. “I cannot go looking for him.”

She did not relent. “Then find Edwin Tranville. Warn him. Tell him to hide himself until I find Claude. I will send word to you when Claude returns to Brussels with me.”

He blew out a breath. “I am not going to look for Edwin Tranville.” He wanted nothing to do with Edwin Tranville. “No more discussion.”

He walked to the door and opened it. If she did not leave soon, his rapidly eroding resolve might entirely wash away. “I bid you good day.”

He pictured himself holding her in his arms, inhaling her essence, feeling her warm curves against his body.

She paused to face him. “I am staying at the Bristol Hotel, if you decide differently.”

He closed the door behind her and immediately paced the room, angry at her for making this request, angrier at himself for hoping she’d come for him. He turned towards the windows and watched her step out of the building onto the pavement. She took a few steps, then stopped to look for something in her reticule. She pulled out a lace-edged handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

His insides twisted.

With one distraught glance toward the building she started to walk away.

But the three officers he’d run into at the War Office were approaching her, returning from the tavern, no doubt. They swayed with drink and talked so loudly he could almost hear their words. They exclaimed in pleasure when catching sight of her.

The three men circled her, doffing their hats and bowing, their greetings too exuberant, too ungentlemanly. She tried to push past them, but they blocked her path. She stiffened and tried again.

Three drunk men in red coats? It was like Badajoz.

Gabe sensed her panic as if he were inside her skin. He grabbed his shako and hurried out of the parlour, crossing the hall to the front door. As he opened it the three men were right there, about to step inside. Through them Gabe saw Emmaline rushing away.

Hanson put an arm around Gabe’s shoulder. “Deane, my good friend. You just missed the most delectable creature. In fact, you might be able to catch up to her if you hurry.” Contrary to his words, though, he pushed Gabe inside with them.

“She was a sight for sore eyes, that is to be sure,” agreed Irishman. “A pity Webberly scared her off. Never did know how to approach a lady.”

Webberly shoved him. “What lady would be walking out of Stephen’s alone?” He laughed. “Shall we wager on whose room she was visiting?”

Gabe clenched a fist. “I saw the three of you through the window. You frightened her.”

Hanson guffawed. “And you were rushing to her rescue? Great strategy, Deane! No better way to get a woman into bed than to come to her rescue.”

Irishman staggered ahead. “I’ve a bottle in my room if you’ve a mind to wet your whistle before dinner is served.”

“Come with us,” Hanson said to Gabe.

“No, I have an errand.” He drew back.

“Come to us when you are done.” Irishman gestured for Hanson and Webberly to hurry. “We’ll save you a drink.”

“Four-to-one odds Deane is going after that fancy piece,” Webberly cried.

The others laughed, but Gabe was already across the threshold. Once outside he ran out to Bond Street and managed to catch sight of Emmaline in the distance, walking alone.

He followed her, as he had that first day he’d glimpsed her in Brussels. Irishman, Hanson and Webberly were harmless enough, but that did not mean there were no other men out there who could pose a danger to her.

He stayed close enough to keep her in sight, all the while cursing himself for involving himself with her again, for even caring about her safety when she so obviously cared only for what assistance he could render her. As soon as she was safely back to her hotel, he’d wash his hands of her.

“It is none of my affair!” he said aloud, receiving a startled glance from a gentleman passing by.

Walking back to her hotel, Emmaline still trembled inside. The three officers had frightened her badly, bringing back the terror of Badajoz, but she’d collected her wits in time. Straightening to her full height, she had ordered them to leave her alone. They immediately backed off, apologising with exaggerated politeness. She was glad she’d not panicked and run away. Inside she still felt the fear, but she’d learned that, even when afraid, it was best to demand what she wanted.

She had not hidden her fears for Claude from Gabriel, however. She’d even mentioned the guillotine to him. She well knew that the British hanged men for murder, but her imagination kept showing Claude ascending steps to a guillotine. She again could hear the sound of the blade being raised, the excited rumblings of the crowd, the blade whizzing in its descent and the indescribable sound of it doing its work. It was as if she were still a girl standing in the Place de la Revolution holding her mother’s hand.

She forced herself to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, making her way to her hotel on Cork Street. It was not a far walk from Gabriel.

Gabriel.

How she had missed him. A part of her had wanted to weep for the joy of gazing upon him again, hearing his voice, inhaling his essence. The pain of sending him away had settled into a dull, enduring ache, but now the wound had reopened and bled freely again.

He was still so angry with her.

She could not blame him. He’d offered her his name and his protection and she’d sent him away, knowing that if she chose him her son would be lost to her for ever and she would never have a chance to help Claude find a way to happiness and peace.

It would be impossible to make Gabriel understand. It was not him she had rejected so cruelly. She simply could not turn away from her son, not when it was her fault Claude was so vengeful.

She should have defied her husband all those years ago, run away with Claude so her husband could not take him away from her. She’d been cowardly.

C’est vrai, she would never have met Gabriel, then. She would never have known those brief weeks of bliss with him. She would never have hurt him so acutely, either. Now she had wounded him all over again by coming to see him and asking for his help.

Her head was reeling. How was she to find Claude on her own? No one in England would help her, not with her French accent and story of a son who planned to kill an Englishman. Non, she would be reported to the English gendarmerie; perhaps she and Claude both would climb up to the scaffold.

She needed Gabriel. Needed him. Gabriel had found Claude on a battlefield littered with thousands of dead and dying men; he would know how to find him in England. Gabriel would protect her, as well, keep her safe from Edwin Tranville, who still frightened her as much as he had the day he’d tried to rape her and kill Claude, the day he’d laughed when the other men killed her husband. Emmaline should have killed Edwin Tranville herself that day. Gabriel had stopped her.

Gabriel.

Did all her thoughts return to him? When she had risen from her chair in the parlour she thought her heart might stop at the sight of him. She’d forgotten how grand he was, how formidable, a man who could do anything, even come through a battle unscathed to return her son to her.

And here she was, asking him to do it again, to find Claude against nearly impossible odds, to again snatch him from the jaws of death. She had no doubt that Gabriel could do it.

If he would agree.

Emmaline entered her hotel and told the hall servant to send her dinner to her room. She’d procured the most inexpensive room available, trying to conserve her funds so that she could pay Gabriel all she possessed to help her find Claude. Instead he’d been insulted by her offer of money.

Emmaline climbed three sets of stairs to her room and immediately took off her bonnet and gloves. She undid the buttons of the blue spencer she’d sewn to match her blue muslin dress. She was still French enough to take pride in her appearance.

When Claude had been recuperating, he’d wanted to learn English. She’d had plenty of time to sew while drilling him in English words and phrases.

If she’d only known why he wanted to speak the language.

She had sewn clothes for him, because he had outgrown his old ones, and next for herself, using as inspiration the gowns of the most fashionable English ladies who came into the lace shop. She’d been glad to see her clothes were not out of place in London.

Had Gabriel admired her appearance? She wished for his admiration of her ensemble as strongly as she detested the attention it had brought from the three drunken soldiers.

She lay upon the bed and stared at the ceiling, but her mind’s eye saw only Gabriel: his dark unruly hair; his chocolate brown eyes; the expressive mouth that had once pressed against her own lips.

She groaned.

She ached for him. Seeing Gabriel this day made her yearn for those glorious nights when he shared her bed. She’d been happy with him. Even with Claude in the army and Napoleon on the march again, those days with Gabriel had been the happiest she had ever known and she’d missed him every day thereafter. She pulled out the ring she still wore on a chain under her dress. This reminder of him rested always against her heart and kept him near to her, even after two years’ absence.

Finding Gabriel when she came to London had been far easier than she expected. One of the hotel maids here had told her to ask for him at Stephen’s Hotel.

“If he’s an officer and he’s in London, then he will be staying at the Stephen’s Hotel. Mark my words,” the girl had said.

She’d been correct. Emmaline arrived in London that morning and by afternoon she had found him. And lost him again.

Now what was she to do?

An idea occurred to her. If Gabriel was at the Stephen’s Hotel, maybe Edwin Tranville was there, as well. Non, if that were so, surely Gabriel would have told her. Besides, if Tranville were so easy to find, Claude would have killed him already and her strong, handsome son might already have hung by the neck for it.

Claude had grown strong again, even though it had taken him two years to fully recover from his wounds at Waterloo. As his strength grew, so did his restlessness. He finally asked to travel to Paris to visit her parents. Emmaline had agreed, hoping a change in scene would be good for him.

But he had never arrived in Paris. Instead a letter came, explaining his true destination and his avowed intent.

That had been a month ago. Where was he now? And how would she find him?

She came back to Gabriel.

She must think of a way to make him agree, though why should he help her when she had rejected him so cruelly?

She flung an arm across her face, trying to hold off the despair that threatened to completely overwhelm her.

She’d give anything to keep her son from throwing his life away. Anything. But what did she possess that would entice Gabriel to help her?

Emmaline sat up.

She had said she would give anything to save Claude.

Well, she would do more. She would give Gabriel everything.

Everything.

He would not refuse.

Chapter Eight

Gabe descended the stairway to the hotel’s dining room, deciding he might as well distract himself and eat. Staying alone in his room had been no help. One minute he had surged with anger at Emmaline for coming back into his life and re-igniting his need for her, the next minute he knew he must help her. It would require no effort on his part, after all.

He knew where to find Edwin Tranville.

Mere weeks ago he’d been thrown into Edwin’s company. He’d run into Allan Landon, his friend since Allan had been his lieutenant in Spain. Allan was no longer in the army, but was working for Lord Sidmouth and the Home Office, as was, astonishingly, Edwin Tranville. They were charged with combating seditious acts. Allan had learned that a group of soldiers planned to gather to protest against unemployment and high prices. He wanted to stop the protest before the soldiers risked arrest. Gabe had run into Allan when Allan was searching for Edwin, who knew where the gathering was to take place. Gabe helped him search. They found Edwin in a tavern, drunk as usual. Allan quickly left to stop the march and Gabe wound up playing nursemaid to Edwin.

No mention of the soldiers’ march ever reached a newspaper, so Gabe surmised Allan must have been successful.

Luckily Edwin had apparently been too drunk to remember Gabe’s interference. Gabe had no wish for Lord Tranville, Edwin’s father, to learn he was in London seeking a new commission. Lord Tranville would certainly foil any chances Gabe possessed.

Gabe approached the door of the dining room. The Stephen’s Hotel was a popular place to dine and almost like a club for officers who could not gain admittance to White’s or Brooks’s.

No sooner had Gabe entered the dining room than he was hailed by the three officers who accosted Emmaline. They waved him over to sit with them. Gabe shrugged. They’d done her no real harm, nothing any man with a little drink would not have done when encountering a beautiful, unaccompanied woman. Besides, it would be advantageous for him not to be alone with his own thoughts.

“We are making a wager,” Irishman said, “with Webberly’s timepiece—how many minutes until the fried soles are served? Are you in?”

“I never wager.” Gabe lowered himself into a chair.

Hanson immediately poured Gabe a glass of wine. “There’s the pity of it. We could have a game of whist after dinner if you were a gambling man.”

Gabe scanned the room. “I trust someone here would accept.”

Irishman drummed his fingers on the table. “We sat down not more than ten minutes ago, and the servant brought the wine immediately—”

“And thereby earned my eternal gratitude,” interrupted Webberly.

Irishman went on. “So, I estimate it should be another ten minutes at least,”

“I wagered another twenty minutes,” Hanson said.

Webberly lifted a finger. “And I, fifteen.”

Unimaginative lot, thought Gabe. They all bet in equal segments. Likely the food would come on some other point of the clock, like eight minutes or thirteen.

At that moment the soup arrived and they fell silent, except for some audible slurping. No sooner were they done with the soup than the fried sole was served.

Irishman jostled Webberly. “How much time? What does your timepiece say?”

Webberly picked up the gold watch from the table and pressed the button to open it. “What time did the wager start?”

His two friends looked at him blankly and all three burst into laughter.

Irishman lifted his glass of wine. ‘“The better the gambler, the worse the man!”’ A quotation by Publius Syrus, Gabe recalled from his school days.

“Then we are the best of men.” Webberly took a gulp from his wine glass.

Their dinner conversation drifted into more serious matters, such as who among their acquaintance had found commissions, who was still looking, and who might become desperate enough to accept a place in the West Indies.

The conversation was not enough to keep Gabe from being haunted by the memory of Emmaline’s desolate expression when he sent her away. He pushed around slices of scalloped potatoes and finally jabbed at his fried sole.

There was only one way to exorcise himself of her image. Do as she wished. Find Edwin, warn him, and be done with it.

In the morning he’d visit the Home Office, perform this one more service for her, and maybe purge her from his mind for ever after.

The next morning Gabe set out early, planning to walk the distance to the Home Office because the weather was so fine and the exercise would calm him.

He turned on to Bond Street. And saw Emmaline.

She walked towards him with a determined, yet graceful step, and he disliked that her mere appearance affected him so strongly. This day she wore pale lavender and the mere hue of her clothing brought back to him the lavender scent from the lace shop, the scent that always wafted around her.

She, too, caught sight of him. As she drew nearer, her pace remained carefully even.

“Good morning, Gabriel,” she murmured when they were in earshot. She looked directly into his eyes.

“I am surprised to see you, Emmaline.” She appeared to be walking back to Stephen’s Hotel to seek him out again.

Gabe had not expected or intended to lay eyes on her again. After warning Edwin, he’d planned to write her a letter and have it delivered to her hotel.

“I still have hopes to convince you to help me.” She lowered her gaze. “May I have a moment of your time to speak to you?” She spoke so carefully, so hesitantly.

He paused. “Walk with me.”

They walked in silence, crossing Piccadilly and making their way towards Green Park.

“I have a new proposal to present to you,” she said to him, breathless from keeping up with his long strides. “Could we not stop so I may tell you of it?”

What would she offer now? More money? Or merely play upon his obvious regard for her? He did not wish to hear more from her.

Still, he seemed unable to refuse. “We will stop in the Park.”

They could cross through Green Park to reach the Home Office. There would be benches there where they might sit, where she could catch her breath and spill out this new proposal he had no wish to hear.

The Park was fragrant with blooming flowers and the scent of leafy trees and sprouting grass. Warm breezes whispered through the shrubbery, and Gabe for a moment was transported back to the Parc de Brussels where he and Emmaline had strolled in happier days.

They came upon a bench and he gestured for her to sit. “Say what you need to say.”

She lowered herself on to the bench and looked disconcerted when he remained standing. Her hand fluttered to her face. “How to begin …”

Gabe gazed through the trees, his insides seared by memories and false hopes.

She fingered the front of her dress. “You once seemed to have a regard for me, is that not so, Gabriel?”

“Once.” He refused to admit more.

“We did well together, non?” She smiled, but her lips trembled.

He merely stared at her.

“You proposed marriage to me, non?”

He still did not speak, not knowing where she was leading, surmising it would cause him pain.

She took a breath. “I will marry you now, Gabriel.” She waved a hand. “If—if you help me find Claude and stop him from doing this terrible act, I will marry you and go wherever you wish and do whatever you say.” She made a quick, decisive nod, as if convincing herself that she could indeed perform such a distasteful task.

Gabe gaped at her. “Marry me? What of Claude, then? Will he cease to despise me if I stop him from what he wishes to do?”

A great sadness filled her eyes, but her chin lifted in determination. “He will probably hate you the more for it, but that cannot be as important as him being alive. It is better for Claude to live and have a chance for happiness, even if he chooses to exclude me from his life.”

Her son’s life. To save it, she’d agree to anything. Even to marry Gabe.

It felt as if she had now twisted the knife she’d plunged into his chest two years before. Did she think he wanted her to give up the most important part of her life for him?

When he’d proposed to her in Brussels, he’d meant their marriage to be a pledge of love and fidelity between them, not a contest between him and Claude. You win, Gabriel. I’ll marry you. That had not been what Gabe meant about wanting to win her hand. Possession of her company was not the prize, winning her away from her son was not victory. Spending his days and nights with her, sharing their dreams together, that was the prize, much more valuable. Gabe wanted to grow old with Emmaline, but not at the expense of her attachment to her son. What kind of man did she think he was?

She gazed back into his eyes, her expression tense. “Well, do you agree? Will you help me?” Her voice wobbled.

This offer of hers—this sacrifice—stung worse than her initial rejection, which, even though he did not like it, he’d understood. God help him, he had even envied the devotion she bestowed on her son. He’d never been that important to his own mother, not with all his brothers and sisters needing her more, but this was not about his needs. It was about Emmaline. She needed her son like she needed air to breathe. As painful as it was, Gabe would never take away her life’s breath. He refused to be the sacrifice she must make, the price of saving Claude from his own folly.