Page 39 of The Smuggler & the Society Bride

By why had she not confided her true identity to him, especially after he told her he intended to come to London? She must have known when he did so, he would inevitably discover the truth.

Aunt Foxe’s odd look and final warning made more sense now: ‘Anything else that needs to be said should come directly from my niece; it’s not my place to intervene’ and ‘I hope you are prepared for whatever you might discover.’

Prepared, indeed! So much for his pretty daydreams of a future with Miss Foxe—no, Lady Honoria.

Lady Honoria.

He almost laughed at his idiocy. Once his tenure as the Flying Gull’s captain was over, he’d had some hope of continuing their friendship, even with a well-connected Miss Marie Foxe. He was a gentleman’s son and his brother, Sir Nigel, was thought to have made an excellent match when he wed the daughter of an Anglo-Irish viscount.

But to attempt a connection to the daughter of an English earl, a man important in government circles?

His heart protested that despite any difference in rank, there was a true connection between them, both physical and emotional. She felt it as keenly as he, that kinship of minds and yearning of the senses. A link such as he had never felt with any other, a bond that was rare and priceless.

Perhaps important back in Cornwall, common sense told him. In the eyes of the wider world, however, even for a respectable Gabriel Hawksworth returned to take up his position as the landless younger brother of an Irish baron, such a connection meant nothing; one to a Cornish free-trader less than nothing.

He was mad even to dream of a future with her.

No wonder Aunt Foxe asked him if he were prepared for what he might find.

Out of a sick feeling of despair, his anger resurged. Why, he raged again, had Miss Foxe—no, Lady Honoria—allowed him to come to London without warning him?

Maybe she felt his claim of pursuing vindication for her was only an idle boast that might never come to anything. Or that, even if he acted upon his intentions, he would be unable to turn up anything to vindicate her.

Well, to be fair, he hadn’t made it clear that he intended to leave for London immediately nor that he was going to consult with her aunt. Without the connection Aunt Foxe had provided to Lady Alicia, he might well have never discovered the circumstances behind the old scandal—or stumbled upon her true identity.

Grudgingly, he admitted he could understand her not wishing to disclose her real name if nothing could be done to ameliorate her position. And after all that had happened to her, she’d certainly earned the right to be cautious.

Not that it mattered. There could not be anything between them now anyway.

Unless…unless her reputation could not be restored, and she was irretrievably banished from Society. In that case, they might create a world of their own—one where she was not above the touch of the younger brother of a man of small title—even a free-trader. He tried to push the ignoble hope from his head.

He’d push it all from his mind. He still needed to track down the Gypsy and force him to reveal who had hired him to assist in her downfall. And then confront that man.

A righteous anger sizzled in him at the satisfying thought of being able to deal with both the Gypsy and the disgusting, worthless maggot who had deliberately set about to destroy the reputation and honour of an innocent woman.

‘Mr Hawksworth, are you all right?’ Lady Alicia’s concerned voice recalled him.

Gabe shook himself back to the present. ‘Quite fine, your ladyship,’ he responded. ‘Just pondering my next step.’

‘You spoke of trying to redress the wrong done to Lady Honoria. You mean to pursue that?’

‘I do, ma’am.’

‘A lofty aim, sir. Though I fear I have told you nothing that might assist you in that endeavour.’

‘On the contrary, Lady Alicia, you have been most helpful. Thank you again for receiving someone who was wholly unknown to you.’ After draining his wine glass, he rose and bowed to her, indicating his intention to take his leave. After an exchange of politenesses and a promise to let her know what eventually happened in his quest to exonerate Lady Honoria, Gabe fled from the room.

The disturbing news of Miss Foxe’s true identity adding fuel to his frustration and anger, Gabe decided to go immediately to discover what further information he could glean from the jeweller at Phillips, hoping it would be enough for him to track down the Gypsy.

A short hackney ride brought him to Bond Street and Mr Phillip’s establishment. As he would have expected of a shop frequented by a Lady Honoria Carlow, he thought, his lip curling, the premises were large and elegantly furnished, with a tasteful assortment of well-designed and undoubtedly expensive jewellery on display.

He walked in, telling the clerk who came to assist him that he had private business to discuss with Mr Phillips alone. Fortunately for his state of restlessness and general irritation, he wasn’t kept waiting long. A tall, slim, officious-looking individual, Mr Phillips appeared soon after, escorting him to his office when he repeated that his business was confidential.

‘With what might I assist you, Mr…’ the jeweller began.

‘Hawksworth,’ Gabe supplied. ‘I recently encountered a gem trader who encouraged me to invest in some diamonds. They appeared to be fine stones, but as I’m no expert, before purchasing any, I wished to consult someone who was. He claimed he had done business with you. A tall, slim, elegant man, slightly foreign in appearance. A Mr Ste—’

‘Steven Hebden,’ Mr Phillips interrupted. ‘Yes, I’ve bought any number of stones from him.’

At that wholly unexpected name, Gabe’s heart stopped, then kicked back into motion. Shocked to his core for the second time in a day, Gabe said, ‘Hebden is his name, you say? Steven Hebden?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I can understand your caution, for he does have a slightly—unusual air about him, but I’ve never known him to deal in any but the highest quality gems. Resides on Bloomsbury Square, I believe. I’ve sent him notes there on several occasions, when I wished to purchase more gems.’

The jeweller gave him an ingratiating smile. ‘You’re interested in investing in diamonds, you said? Might I suggest that acquiring stones already set would constitute an equally sound investment? I presently have some very fine diamond pieces, guaranteed to please the most discriminating taste.’

‘I’m somewhat pressed today; perhaps another time,’ Gabe replied, still struggling to assimilate the astounding news. ‘Do you recall which house on Bloomsbury Square?’ He placed a guinea on the man’s desk.

Swiftly pocketing the coin, the jeweller said, ‘Check with my clerk. He’s the one who delivered the notes.’

‘Thank you for the information, sir,’ Gabe said, and bowed himself out. After a brief consultation with the clerk, he exited the shop and paced quickly to the nearest hackney stand.

After giving the jarvey the direction to Bloomsbury Square, Gabe let his mind turn over the startling news he’d just received. Hebden! The Gypsy used the name Hebden? Why would he do that…unless the murdered baron’s son had not perished in the foundling home fire after all!

Lady Alicia said that the Gypsy woman—perhaps Hebden? Beshaley’s mother?—had cursed all the families before leaping to her death. Having seen the Gypsy temperament at close hand, Gabe had no trouble believing that the grown son of a murdered father and a mother pushed to take her own life would believe himself to be the instrument to exact vengeance upon the families she had indicted in her curse.

Would he have acted alone? Was he solely responsible for destroying an innocent girl’s life?

Whether or not the Gypsy felt justified in his vengeance, Gabe had a very different notion of honour—and he was about to demonstrate it to him, underscoring its vehemence with his fists.

The London streets seemed more crowded, the transit more dawdling than ever. Gabe was about to stick his head out the window and demand the jarvey pick up the pace when, in a shriek of brakes and squeal of leather, the coach jerked to a stop.

‘This be the house, guv’nor,’ the jarvey announced.

Tossing him a handful of coins, Gabe leapt from the vehicle and headed for the entry.

A slow-burning anger, fired to a hotter flame by irritation, anticipation—and the heartache he was trying to suppress over the revelation of Miss Foxe’s true status—made Gabe ply the knocker with more than customary vigour. As he stood, nearly prancing in impatience to confront the Gypsy and find some answers at last, the door slowly opened, revealing a tall, swarthy man in a green coat of oriental cut, his head concealed beneath a turban.

‘I wish to see Mr Hebden—or Mr Beshaley—immediately, on a matter of great urgency.’

Making no reply, the tall Indian studied him, remaining silent long enough that, piqued and insulted, Gabe’s anger surged higher still. Inspecting him back, Gabe noted the dagger with a jewelled hilt tucked into the sash beneath the man’s Bengal coat.

‘A thousand apologies, Sahib, but Master Stephen Sahib is not here,’ the man said at last.

‘Not here—or not receiving guests?’ Gabe demanded.

‘Not in the house.’

‘Indeed?’ Gabe asked, not at all sure he could believe the man. How like Beshaley, to employ this exotic Eastern hulk of a butler! ‘How about I have a look around, just to be sure.’

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