“Thank you,” Gabriel said sourly. “Now I won’t be surprised when my future offspring emerge with horns and tails.”
Westcliff smiled. “In my experience, it’s all in how you handle them.” The earl was the calm, steady center of his own boisterous family, which included a high-spirited wife and a brood of rambunctious offspring.
And Lady Pandora made them all look like sloths.
Pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, Gabriel muttered, “I don’t have the damned patience, Westcliff.” After a moment, he noticed the brimstone moth had finally ventured too close to the beckoning flame. The delicate wings ignited, and the creature was reduced to a smoldering wisp. “Do you know anything about the new Lord Trenear?”
“His name is Devon Ravenel. From all accounts, he’s well-liked in Hampshire, and has been managing the estate quite competently.” Westcliff paused. “It seems he married the late earl’s young widow, which is certainly not unlawful, but it did raise a few brows.”
“She must have had a massive jointure,” Gabriel said cynically.
“Perhaps. In any event, I wouldn’t expect Trenear to object to a match between you and Lady Pandora.”
Gabriel’s mouth twisted. “Believe me, he’ll be overjoyed to have her taken off his hands.”
Most of the mansions on South Audley, a smart address in the heart of Mayfair, were of the standard multi-columned Georgian design. Ravenel House, however, was a Jacobean with triple-story balconies and a hipped roof bristling with slender chimneys.
The great hall was lined with richly carved oak paneling, and a white plasterwork ceiling adorned with mythological figures. The walls were softened with an abundance of rich tapestries and French chinoiserie vases filled with bursts of fresh cut flowers. Judging from the quiet atmosphere, Pandora hadn’t yet returned.
A butler showed him to a well-appointed parlor and announced him. As Gabriel stepped forward and bowed, Devon Ravenel stood to reciprocate.
The new Earl of Trenear was a lean, broad-shouldered fellow of no more than thirty, with dark hair and a shrewd gaze. There was an alert but friendly air about him, a relaxed confidence that Gabriel immediately liked.
His wife Kathleen, Lady Trenear, remained on the sofa. “Welcome, my lord.” One glance was all it took to refute Gabriel’s earlier speculation that Trenear had married her for financial gain. Or at least, that couldn’t have been the only reason. She was a lovely woman, delicately feline, with tip-tilted brown eyes. The way her ruddy curls tried to spring free of their pins reminded him of his mother and older sister.
“I apologize for intruding on your privacy,” Gabriel said.
“No need,” Trenear replied easily. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“You may not think so after I explain why I’m here.” Gabriel felt his color rising as he met their inquiring gazes. Furious and stunned to find himself in a dilemma that smacked of high farce, he continued with stone-faced resolve. “I’ve just come from the Chaworth ball. An unexpected situation has . . . cropped up . . . and it must be resolved with all due haste. I—” He paused to clear his throat. “I seem to have compromised Lady Pandora.”
Utter silence descended on the room.
In other circumstances, Gabriel might have been amused by the couple’s blank expressions.
Lady Trenear was the first to respond. “What do you mean by ‘compromised,’ my lord? Were you overheard flirting with her, or perhaps discussing some inappropriate subject?”
“I was discovered alone with her. At the summer house behind the mansion.”
Another all-encompassing silence, before the earl asked bluntly, “What were you doing?”
“Helping her out of a settee.”
Lady Trenear looked increasingly bewildered. “That was very courteous of you, but why—”
“By ‘helping her out,’” Gabriel continued, “I mean to say that I had to pull her out through the settee. Somehow she had managed to wedge the upper half of her body into the middle of the carved open back, and couldn’t free herself without tearing off her dress.”
Trenear rubbed his forehead and briefly pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets. “That would be Pandora,” he muttered. “I’m going to ring for brandy.”
“Three glasses,” his wife told him, her worried gaze returning to Gabriel. “Lord St. Vincent, come sit by me, please, and tell us what happened.” As he complied, she gathered up a thimble, a spool of thread, and a few bits of cloth, and distractedly shoved them into a mending basket near her feet.
Gabriel explained the events of the evening as succinctly as possible, omitting the part about Dolly’s earring. Although he had no obligation to keep Dolly’s secret, he knew Pandora would want him to hold his silence on that point.
Trenear came to sit beside his wife and listened intently. After a footman had appeared with a tray of brandy, he poured the vintage into short-stemmed glasses and handed one to Gabriel.
Taking a bracing swallow, Gabriel felt the biting glow sink deep in his throat. “Even if Chaworth hadn’t been determined to hold my feet to the fire,” he said, “Lady Pandora’s reputation was already in ruins. She shouldn’t have left the ballroom.”
Lady Trenear’s shoulders drooped like a weary schoolgirl’s. “This was my fault. I persuaded Pandora to take part in the Season.”
“Don’t start that, for God’s sake,” the earl said gently, guiding her to look at him. “Not everything is your fault, much as you would like to believe otherwise. We all urged Pandora to go out in society. The alternative was to let her stay at home while Cassandra went to balls and parties.”