"Shall I lay out your habit, ma'am?" The maid straightened, dusting off her hands as the fire blazed in the grate.
"Please." Gabrielle poured chocolate in a rich aromatic stream from the silver pot.
"The boot boy blacked your boots nicely," Maisie observed, holding Gabrielle's riding boots of cordovan leather up to the light, examining them for any residual sign of scuff marks.
Gabrielle murmured vague assent. It had been agreed with Talleyrand that she should travel without her own maid, relying on Georgiana's staff. The fewer people close to her, the less dangerous any inadvertent errors would be, and she'd have much more freedom of movement if she had only herself to consider.
Maisie bustled around with jugs of hot water, lacing, buttoning, brushing hair, all the while chatting cheerfully about her pregnant sister's latest ailments and the poacher the gamekeeper had caught during the night. Gabrielle allowed the chat to wash over her, murmuring vaguely when it seemed required. Her own thoughts were fixed on the day ahead and how best to renew her attack on Nathaniel Praed.
An hour later she made her way down to the breakfast parlor, humming an old nursery rhyme softly to herself: A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go. We'll catch a fox and put him in a box. A-hunting we will go.
But her quarry today would be more than just Reynard.
A footman jumped to open the door to the breakfast parlor and she went in to find herself alone with Lord Praed.
"Good morning, sir." She greeted him with a casual smile as if she had never climbed into his bedchamber and sat on the edge of his bed in the middle of the night. "We seem to be ahead of the others."
"Yes," he agreed shortly, barely looking up from his plate.
"A lovely day," she persevered, lifting the lids of the chafing dishes on the sideboard.
"Yes."
"Perfect for hunting."
There was no reply.
"Oh, forgive me. Are you one of those people who hates to talk at the breakfast table?" The crooked smile was faintly mocking.
Lord Praed's response was something between a grunt and a snort.
Gabrielle helped herself to a dish of kedgeree and sat down at the far end of the long table, as tar from her taciturn breakfast companion as she could manage. She hummed the silly nursery rhyme to herself as she buttered toast, studiously avoiding looking at Nathaniel.
"Must you?" Lord Praed demanded abruptly, a deep frown corrugating his forehead, the greenish-brown eyes filled with irritation.
"Must I what?" She looked up in innocent, puzzled inquiry.
"Sing that damn song," he said. "It's getting on my nerves."
"Oh, yes," she said with a serene smile. "It's getting on mine too, but I can't get it out of my head. It's going round and round. You know the way these silly songs do."
"No, I'm happy to say I don't know," he snapped.
Gabrielle shrugged and reached for the coffeepot. "I must say, Lord Praed, that if I disliked company at breakfast as much as you do, I'd make quite certain I breakfasted alone."
"That was exactly what I was trying to do. Most people don't appear in the breakfast parlor before half past seven, by which time I'm long gone."
"My, that was a long speech," Gabrielle observed admiringly. "Could you pass the milk, please."
Nathaniel pushed back his chair with a noisy scrape on the polished floor, picked up the silver creamer, and marched the length of the table, depositing it beside her coffee cup with such force that milk slurped over the top.
"Thank you," she said sweetly, mopping at the spill with her table napkin.
Nathaniel stared down at her for a minute in impotent exasperation. Then he spun on his heel and marched out of the room, narrowly avoiding a collision with Miles Bennet and Miss Bayberry, who were deep in chatter as they entered the breakfast room.
"Morning, Nathaniel." Miles greeted his friend cheerfully. "I suppose you've breakfasted already in splendid isolation."
"On the contrary," Nathaniel said, and went on his way.
Grinning, Miles held out a chair for Miss Bayberry. "Good morning, Gabby. I gather you've disturbed our friend's need for solitude at break of day."
"So it would seem," Gabrielle agreed tranquilly. "He should eat in his room if he hates company that much."
The table filled rapidly with avid hunters, and Gabrielle went up to her room soon after to fetch her hat, gloves, and whip. Nathaniel Praed had been in ridingbritches and coat, so presumably he intended joiningthe hunt. Although, if he was as morose on the field as atthe breakfast table, itmight prove difficult to engage him in pointful discourse. But it was always possible that the opportunity for some more unconventional contact might present itself.
Nathaniel also traveled without personal servants, formuch the same reasons as Gabrielle. He straightened his stock in front of the mirror and dusted off his tophat against his thigh. He looked neat and conventional, but unremarkable. The Comtesse de Beaucaire, onthe other hand, had taken his breath away when she'd first walked into the breakfast parlor, although he trusted he hadn't given her the satisfaction of seeing it.
If ever a woman knew how to dress to advantage, the countess did. Most tall women tried to disguise their height, Gabrielle made the most of it. The black riding habit had been as severely cut as her gown of the previous evening, clinging to the lines of her body in a most seductive fashion. Emerald-green braiding was the only adornment, and he seemed to remember that at her throat she'd worn a snowy white muslin cravat with anemerald pin.
How the hell had he managed to notice all that while she'd been disturbing his peace with inane prattle?
He'd obey the dictates of courtesy and wait for Simon to join them, and then he'd tell him exactly what he thought of his underhand scheming, and then he'd leave… go into Hampshire for some peace and quiet. Check on Jake.
Jake. Just thinking about the child produced a surge of unease and dismay. What had Miles been getting at last evening, when he'd asked what Jake thought of his life? What right did a six-year-old child have to an opinion on such a matter?
The boy's brown eyes hung in his father's internal vision. Thick-lashed, liquid, emotional. Helen's eyes. His hair, curly, fair, with even fairer streaks. Helen's hair. The dimple on his chin. Helen's dimple; Helen's chin.
Helen's exhausted face on the pillow… so white, whiter than it was possible for living flesh. The glazing mist in the eyes gazing up at him with such desperate dependent need… trusting that Nathaniel wouldn't let anything bad happen to her.
And he'd failed her. She'd been dead when they pulled Jake with their ghastly instruments from her body. She'd never looked upon the child whose life had taken her own.
It was six years in the past, and yet it felt like yesterday. Would the torment ever cease? Surely a merciful God had some statute of limitations on the emotional agonies of memory, the devastating misery of an unreasonable guilt that couldn't be absolved.
The imperative summons of a hunting horn broke into the bleak circular thoughts. He picked up his gloves and whip and left the room. A day on the hunting field would banish the memories, at least temporarily. A tired body was a great panacea.
He saw Gabrielle de Beaucaire when he stepped through the front door and stood looking down at the milling throng of huntsmen, dogs, riders congregated on the circular gravel sweep before the house. The countess wore a tricorn hat with a silver plume sweeping her shoulder, and she sat a black hunter, her skirts blending with the animal's glossy coat.
As if aware of his observation, she turned slightly and looked directly at him. He was too far away to see her expression clearly, but it was all too easy to imagine the mocking glimmer in the charcoal eyes, the small, crooked smile-he'd seen them often enough. For a moment he felt as if she were holding him with her gaze, as if she'd robbed him of the will to move. Then she bent to take the stirrup cup being proffered by a footman; a groom brought Nathaniel's rat-tailed gray and the spell was broken. He mounted swiftly and eased his horse to the edge of the throng away from the animated conversations and shouted greetings, the curses of the huntservants as they whipped in the hounds.