Waterson chuckled. “Waverly, if you believe you are going to control the gentleman your sister weds or does not wed, then you’re corked in the head.”

A growl of frustration stuck in his chest.

“You’ve hired a companion.” Interest underscored the other man’s words.

He blinked as, with those four words, thoughts of Chloe’s unwedded state were replaced with the reminder of Jane. “I have.” Gabriel tightened his grip upon his glass. “What do you know of it?”

Waterson took a small sip. “Merely that she’s a pinch-faced, frowning young widow your sister is being forced to drag about town.”

Pinch-faced? Gabriel scowled. Is that how the cruelly condescending lords and ladies saw Jane? Then, isn’t that how he himself had? But that had been before her awe-struck appreciation of the mural, and their kiss, and… “What matter is it to the ton?” Nor would he bother pointing out that Chloe had been the one insistent on keeping Mrs. Jane Munroe.

The earl lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. “You know the way of it, Waverly. Polite Society makes all matters, their matter. And your sour, ugly companion has earned some attention.”

At his friend’s casual, throwaway words, fury snapped through him. “Shut your mouth,” he bit out. “I’d hardy call her ugly.” At first he’d thought her plain but never ugly.

“Oh?” Waterson inquired, arching a single brown eyebrow. There was a layer of questions to that one word utterance.

“Do not be ridiculous. The lady is in my employ.”

Waterson gave a half-grin. “I didn’t say anything.”

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Christ. He gritted his teeth at his unwitting revelation. He gave his head a shake and instead focused not on the lovely Mrs. Munroe, but rather the fact that she had somehow found herself an object of gossip. Inherently reserved and exceedingly private, Jane would detest knowing that Society discussed her. He’d have a care to keep that information from the lady.

His friend planted his elbows on the edge of the table and, with his glass in hand, leaned forward. “Is there perhaps something I should ask about the lady whom you’d hardly call ugly?”

Fortunately, Gabriel had become a master of disguise in terms of emotions. “There isn’t,” he spoke in the clipped, cool tones his father had drilled into him with the edge of a birch rod. His friend wisely said nothing, but instead took a sip of his drink. “The lady comes from Chloe’s former finishing school.”

Waterson spit out his drink, spraying the table with liquid. He yanked out a handkerchief and covered his mouth. A servant rushed over to wipe down the table. Only after the waiter had left did his friend manage to speak without laughing. “You hired one of her former instructors?”

It had been no secret that Chloe had been the bane of Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School. A brother to two sisters himself, Waterson well knew the trials and tribulations of caring for those younger ladies. That had been just one of the other ties that bound them and Gabriel had spoken freely to his friend about Chloe’s lamentable years there. “Ja—,” he flushed, “Mrs. Munroe,” he amended at his friend’s pointed look. “Was never Chloe’s instructor.” Now he wished he was a good deal less loose-lipped.

“Regardless,” Waterson gave a mock shudder. “My sisters are exasperating enough to drive me to Bedlam and still I’d never force one of those harridans upon them.”

It spoke volumes of the man’s regard for his sisters. It was also one of the main factors to recommend him as a husband for Chloe. If the two of them would just bloody relent, it would solve all manner of difficulties. Waterson and his obligations to the earldom. Chloe and her need for a good, honorable, decent chap. “No.”

“Are you—?”

“I’m certain.”

He sighed. Deuced bothersome this elder brother business. He’d always been rot at it. The dark, ugly visage of his father slipped into his mind and a chill stole over him. Even all these damned years later, just the memory of that fiend could turn him into a silent, cowering, quivering bastard. Gabriel finished his drink in a quick swallow. He welcomed the fiery trail it blazed down his throat and then reached for the bottle. With a slight shake to his fingers, he poured another snifter teeming to the rim. He took another sip. This one slower, more practiced. And then he registered his friend’s concerned stare trained on him. All earlier amusement fled.




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