Gabriella Read online

  In truth, Angela had only offered in the first place because it had come to her well-shaped ears that she was acquiring a reputation for hardheartedness. That was undoubtedly because of the public set-down she'd been forced to give to that callow Mr. Jenkins, who had been driving her to distraction with his declarations of undying love. Certainly, he had deserved it; he had begun to take up time she would much rather have spent with more agreeable admirers.

  It had occurred to her then that if the world could see how generous and kind she was to sponsor her poor, homely little sister into Society, such unjust rumours would be overset. And who could tell? It was even conceivable (albeit barely) that Gabriella might make a creditable match and draw off their mother's increasingly broad hints about money troubles.

  Angela told herself that these reasonings held as good now as they had three Seasons ago. She hated to admit it, but her position in Society had slipped a bit lately and could use just this sort of boost. Perhaps Lady Jersey would even take one of her eccentric likings to Gabriella and forgive Angela the criticism she had made (with the kindest intentions, of course!) about that lady's dreadful purple turban the spring before last. The Platts' vouchers to Almack's had somehow failed to be renewed after that little incident, a situation Angela would give much to remedy. Rising gracefully, she rang for the housekeeper.

  "Mrs. Madsen," she said decisively when that worthy arrived, "my sister Gabriella will be joining us in a week's time to make her bows to Society. Pray have the maids prepare the Blue Room for her stay." She smiled to herself as the housekeeper left to carry out her orders. No one was going to accuse Lady Angela Platt of hardheartedness this Season!

 

  * * *

 

  The month of April had fairly flown by, it seemed to Brie, as she bounced along with the other passengers on the London-bound stage. There had been so much to do over the past weeks, what with turning over their records to Mr. Bennet and reassuring each individual farmer that his stock would still receive the best of care (which she devoutly hoped would be true), that there had really been no time for the nervousness she had expected as the date of her debut drew near.

  Perhaps it was just as well that she was already on her way, she mused. After all, the more quickly she got this wretched Season out of the way, the more quickly she could return home. She resolutely refused to consider what she would do at home now, with the practice out of their hands.

  Looking ahead to the Season in London, Brie bent her thoughts to how she could most profitably use her time there. She had already promised Gabe that she would put in a good word for him with anyone she met that might conceivably have influence at one of the schools. That must be her first concern, obviously. She foresaw no difficulty there; after all, how much time could parties, balls and the theatre possibly consume? No doubt she would have ample time left over to devote to the arrangements of Gabe's schooling.

  Brie looked out of the coach window at the passing scenery; they had now moved beyond the environs known to her, and the countryside was subtly changing. In spite of herself, she felt an unexpected surge of excitement at the thought of experiencing the new and unknown.

  She glanced over at Molly, her mother's maid, who had come along for propriety's sake and was to return to Gloucestershire once her mistress's daughter was settled in at Lady Platt's. Brie could only be glad that the maid had finally fallen asleep, as her incessant chatter had prevented any thought on her own part and revealed a lack of any such ability on Molly's part.

  "Are we 'most there yet, Miss Brie?" she had asked less than half an hour ago.

  "No, of course not, Molly," Brie had replied with a laugh. "We've only been on the road a few hours and it is at least a two-day journey to London. We shall be spending the night at some inn or other and shall continue on in the morning. If the distance were so short, I daresay Mama would have consented to let me come alone."

  Molly had merely nodded, unembarrassed, and continued to describe every object they passed as though the other occupants of the coach were blind. "There's less trees now than there was," she announced, "and the land is flatter. The roof on that there stone barn is rotted out. Someone ought to see to fixing it." On and on she had rattled, but finally, mercifully, her voice had dropped to a murmur and then to silence as the swaying of the coach rocked her to sleep.

  The sun was setting when the stage stopped for the night at a large posting house and inn proclaimed to be the Ruby Crown by a gaudily painted sign hanging above the front entrance. Brie wakened Molly, who had continued to doze fitfully, before stepping from the coach to stretch her cramped limbs. After speaking with the coachman to ascertain the time that their journey would continue in the morning, she took the groggy maid by the arm and proceeded into the inn in search of sustenance and a room for the night.

  Having bespoken a meal in the common room in an hour's time (the private parlour, the innkeeper had proudly informed her, was already engaged by one of the nobility) and having sent Molly up to the room they were to share, Brie wandered back outside to pass the time until dinner. Irresistibly, she was drawn to the rear of the inn, where the stables were located, along with a small piggery and poultry yard. She watched the antics of a large litter of pigs for several minutes, laughing aloud as they cavorted and tumbled about the sty. No one paid her the least bit of attention; dressed for travelling as she was in her serviceable brown homespun, she might easily have passed for one of the menials employed at the inn.

  She was just turning to go back inside, as the dusk was deepening, when she noticed a smartly liveried groom leading a horse in such appalling condition that she instinctively paused for a closer look. The animal had once been a fine bay gelding, its superior breeding still showing in the well-shaped head and legs. Now, however, the poor creature was little more than a walking skeleton, while welts and cuts showed that it had been severely beaten as well as starved. Without stopping to consider the fact that no one here knew anything of her background with animals, she rounded angrily on the unsuspecting groom.

  "This kind of abuse is an outrage!" she fairly shouted in his startled face. "Anyone who would treat a horse like this has no business owning one!" The groom began to stammer some response, but Brie would listen to no excuses. "Take me to your master at once and he shall be told what ought to be done about people who find it amusing to mistreat the poor creatures that trust to them for care."

  Shrugging helplessly, the groom led her through the inn. As they went, Brie heard him mumbling under his breath that his master wasn't going to welcome any interruption, but for himself, he was done trying to reason with a fire-breathing termagant. He stopped at the door of the private parlour, where he tapped diffidently. The moment the parlour door opened, the groom cravenly fled to the kitchens.

  "Yes, what is it?" The man who stood before her was obviously the "one of the nobility" the innkeeper had referred to, so proclaimed by the fashionable and expensive cut of his midnight blue coat, the fall of his neckcloth and the studied disorder of his curling brown hair. He was very tall, very handsome and, apparently, very impatient. The cause for that impatience lounged seductively on a sofa behind him: a plump, raven-haired beauty in an outrageously low-cut red satin gown. This deterred Brie not at all; in fact, in her anger, she scarcely noticed the woman.

  "I have been informed that you are the owner of the bay gelding out back which is at death's door owing to your abuse, or that of your underlings," she stated without preamble, her chin held high. "I wish to tell you, as apparently no one yet has, that such treatment of a poor dumb beast is inexcusable. I would not have thought anyone with the pretension to consider himself a gentleman could be capable of such behaviour!"

  At another time, this particular gentleman might have been amused at the situation. Just now, however, he had been interrupted in the middle of a most promising tête-à-tête with Mademoiselle Monique, whom he had high hopes of persuading to become his mistress, as her mos
t recent protector, Lord Gillings, had left the past week for the Continent. This being the case, he did not feel disposed to banter words with this obvious nobody at the door. Her accent was cultured, to be sure, but her manner and attire appeared to be that of a servant.

  "The condition of my horses can hardly be any business of yours, young woman," he said in the icy tone which had frozen more than one presumptuous London dandy where he stood, and which had never failed to send its unfortunate target cringing abjectly away. It failed now.

  "Preventing cruelty to animals should be everyone's business!" flared the presumptuous girl. "You are obviously a man of high position. Think of the example you are setting, when others see how poorly you treat your beasts. I should think you would be ashamed! You must have it in your power to influence a great many people for good or ill, and this is how you use that power!"

  "That will be quite enough!" he snapped, perilously close to losing his legendary control. His eyes narrowed as he took in the upright little figure before him. The girl was nothing out of the ordinary, with brown hair scraped severely back from her freckled brown face— a common country wench, no doubt. Who did she think she was to be taking the Duke of Ravenham, undisputed leader of Society and well known Corinthian, to task for the treatment of his horses?

  "If you feel so strongly about the fate of that gelding, you are free to purchase him. Discuss it with my groom. The price is fifteen pounds six." That, after all, is what he himself had paid for the poor beast not two hours ago to prevent its further abuse by the tinker who had owned it. The girl's expression confirmed his surmise that she was not in possession of such a sum, and he smiled slightly.

  "Now I must ask you to take up no more of my time. Good evening." So saying, he shut the door firmly in Brie's affronted face.

  She stood irresolute outside the parlour for a few moments, strongly tempted to knock again, but finally decided against it. She had the disconcerting feeling that she might, just possibly, have been in the wrong but she quickly shrugged it off. The man was simply too arrogant to admit to any fault, she told herself. Suddenly realising the lateness of the hour, Brie went off to the common room for her dinner, still feeling that she should somehow have done more.

  The next morning, she awoke well before daylight and her thoughts went immediately to the poor gelding in the stables—and his infuriating master. Moving quietly so as not to wake the sleeping Molly and perhaps provoke a lengthy questioning, she dressed quickly and slipped out of the room.

  Brie made her way to the stables without being observed and walked along the length of the low building until she found the stall which housed the maltreated bay. Speaking softly to alert him to her presence without alarming him, she let herself into the box and gently began to examine the horse's wounds. He had obviously been abused over a long period of time, as old, badly healed cuts were visible along with more recent ones. As far as she could tell in the dim light, he had been beaten with whip, stick and chain! Her temper began to rise again at the thought of such atrocities, but she quickly forced her mind back to the task at hand.

  Tearing into thin strips the old petticoat she had brought with her, Brie expertly cleansed the more recent weals and applied the salve that her father had always used, and which she was never without. One never knew when one might come upon an animal (or even a person) in need of emergency care, and she had been well trained to be always prepared. She considered stitching one particularly nasty cut, but regretfully decided it would be too risky without an assistant to hold the horse's head.

  She thought that what little she had been able to do should at least allow the existing cuts to heal without infection, assuming, of course, that no further abuse occurred. She hoped her little lecture last night might at least have done that much good. Perhaps the nobleman's lovely wife, who had overheard the entire exchange, would be able to influence him to be kinder, although she had not looked especially soft-hearted, Brie had to admit. At any rate, she herself could do no more at present.

  She fervently wished she had carried more money with her on the journey. How she would have loved to throw fifteen six (preferably all in coins) in that arrogant peer's face! The memory of his mocking grey eyes had haunted her dreams, and she hoped that by tending to his poor horse she would sleep better in future. It would no doubt be best if she never saw Lord Whatever-His-Name-Was again.

  The inn was astir when Brie returned, and Molly was frantically looking for her. She quieted the maid's concern with a tale of having stepped out for a breath of air, then hurriedly broke her fast while Molly ran to fetch her trunk from upstairs.

  "We'd best scurry, miss," she said breathlessly upon reentering the common room. "The trunk is already stowed and the coachman is anxious to start."

  "Of course, Molly," replied Brie, drinking the last of her milk. "Did you have a chance to eat?"

  "Yes, miss, in the kitchen, while you was out breathin' the air. There's some real handsome servants here, valets and such-like. One in particular, a groom, I think he was—"

  "That will be enough." Brie cut her off, knowing that the maid would willingly describe every person she had met in the past four-and-twenty hours if encouraged. "We need to hurry, I believe you said."

 

  * * *

 

  The Duke of Ravenham was not in happy spirits as he drove back to London some hours later. His negotiations with Mademoiselle Monique had not gone as planned. She was currently experiencing no lack of funds, and obviously wished to wait until she had several offers to choose among. Thus, the closed carriage he had brought in hopes of furthering their acquaintance during the journey back to Town was empty; he held the ribbons himself, as he found it easier to think while his hands were occupied, while his groom was left to lead the poor bay at a walking pace.

  Unaccountably, he blamed the interruption by that serving girl, or whatever she was, for his lack of success. She had certainly put him out of humour with her unfounded accusations and her refusal to be put in her place. Small wonder that he could not properly carry on a seduction after such a scene.

  Who could she have been? he wondered again. Whatever training she had received had obviously not included a proper respect for her betters; he could still barely believe her effrontery in presuming to lecture him on his care of horseflesh! Perhaps he should have told her the truth at the outset, and so shortened the confrontation, but he had not felt at the time that she deserved that consideration. Now, however, he was feeling the tiniest pang of regret for that omission.

  Despite her common appearance and dress, she spoke as though she had some degree of intelligence and education. Her spirit and determined love for animals were things he couldn't help but admire, and those eyes, at least, were not quite ordinary. They were well shaped, he recalled, and of a deep turquoise colour which was most unusual.

  Perhaps he had been a bit harsh, the Duke decided. If he ever saw the girl again, he would apologise. Though fully aware that such a chance would almost certainly never present itself, he allowed his conscience to be assuaged by this resolution and turned his thoughts back to the more pressing matter of the delectable but undecided Mademoiselle Monique.

 

  * * *

 

 

 

 

  CHAPTER 3

 

  Arriving at the imposing Platt residence just at tea-time, Brie was shown directly into the front drawing room by Madsen, the Platts' properly portly butler and (she was later to learn) husband to the worthy housekeeper. She had barely a chance to take in the expensive, if slightly tasteless, clutter of artwork adorning the numerous gilt tables in the large apartment before she was accosted by her sister.

  "Dearest, dearest Gabriella, here you are at last!" exclaimed Angela in a carefully cultivated, mellow voice. Rising gracefully, she fairly glided across the room to embrace Brie lightly, kissing the air an inch from each cheek, befo
re turning to her companions.

  "Ladies, this is my dear sister Gabriella, who is come to stay with me for the Season, as I told you, and whom I haven't seen in simply years! Darling, you must make the acquaintance of two of my dearest friends, Lady Mountheath and Mrs. Gresham."

  Polite murmurs had barely been exchanged before Angela continued. "You must know, when Gabriella and I were children people constantly commented on the likeness between us, and I assure you no two sisters could ever have been closer. Come, darling, and sit here on the sofa with me," she invited, patting the spot as if she were calling a dog.

  Brie moved slowly to join her, a bit taken aback at the two bold-faced lies her sister had just told. No one could fail to notice the stark contrast between Angela's plump blonde beauty, currently swathed in amethyst silk, and Gabriella's thin, drab brownness, but the two ladies merely smiled politely. Brie suspected that her sister's comment had been uttered for the sole purpose of forcing a comparison.

  "Tell me, my dear," said Angela sweetly when Brie was seated, "do you still tramp about the farms among the livestock as you used? You must spend a great deal of time out of doors to have grown so brown! How very healthy, to be sure!" The smile she turned on her dear friends clearly communicated that they were not to expect too much from her poor, bucolic sister.

  "As a matter of fact, I do," answered Brie, attempting to mimic Angela's tone. "Or, at least I did until a week ago. We've had to sell the practice, I'm afraid, as Gabe and I were unable to keep it up alone. By the way, we missed you at Papa's funeral, my dear, but I understood that you were too busy to attend." Turning to her sister's guests, she began confidentially, "As I'm certain dear Angela has told you, our father was a—"

  Angela's face turned a shade pinker, and she hastily stood up. "How thoughtless of me, Gabriella!" she broke in. "You must be quite worn out after your long journey and I have not even allowed you to take off your travelling things, I was so overcome by seeing you again. Madsen!" The hovering butler appeared at the door. "Pray take my poor sister to her room so that she may rest and freshen up a bit. Dinner will be at seven, my dear, as we are going to the theatre tonight. No doubt you will find that quite a treat."