Evidently, one could take the man from the country, though one could never take the country out of the man.

The London apartment was furnished quite modestly, with rugged pieces that served to emphasize Gabriel’s meager beginnings. He made no apologies for his provinciality. It was part of who he was. No matter the formality of his education, he was still a wee boy in ragged breeches, and he would go to his grave with imagined holes in the soles of his shoes. It annoyed him to no end to consider the prospects available to a man of means—most of them pea-brained twits, who were more concerned with putting their breasts on display than they were about revealing just a wee bit of sexy wit. Sighing, he struck a match, sinking back into his favorite chair as it flared. He lit the cheroot and sucked the smoke into the back of his throat as he surveyed the familiar room—terrible habit he’d picked up. He ought to put it aside as swiftly as the Earl of Aberdeen seemed to put aside his lovers. But then, as had already been established; Gabriel couldn’t blame the man, as there was only one girl in all his life who hadn’t fantastically bored him, and she was long gone from his life—and no doubt he’d embellished that memory as well.

As for the decor of his office… his father had taken up woodworking after retiring from his position with the Duke of Blackwood, as London hardly offered any occasion to “get the dirt under one’s nails.” A simple wooden rocker sat beside his hearth, evidence of his father’s labors. Draped over that chair was a plush quilt his mother had lovingly stitched for him years ago, “for those cold, cold nights at school.”

It was only the two of them now, he and his Da, as his mother had passed away some years ago. His siblings were scattered to the winds—a sister in Boston, another in New York; a brother in India and another one in Scotland. None were flush enough to care for their father, so the task fell to Gabriel, and it suited him fine.

However, he’d thought a move from the country would prove to be beneficial. But damned if his old man wasn’t behaving strangely of late. All day long, he’d been coming into the room at intervals as though he had something to say, and then departing again, shaking his head like an absent-minded fool—something his wily old pop was not. At sixty-eight, his Da was as shrewd as they came, and Gabriel supposed he must, indeed, have something to say, though his father had never had much difficulty in speaking his mind.

It wasn’t long before he peeped into the room again, and this time he entered carrying a small box. “Busy, son?”

Gabriel eyed his father curiously. It didn’t take a mastermind to deduce he was not. “No,” he answered anyway.

“Good. Very good.” His father approached the desk with his strange box, and as Gabriel watched him, he thought for the first time ever that his father appeared old. His mother’s death had aged him, surely, but somehow, in the space of these past few days, he seemed... so wizened.

He didn’t speak, nor did Gabriel, as he watched as his father place the small carton on the desk beside him. Concern for his father’s health kept Gabriel’s attention from the box for the moment.

He sat up, withdrawing the cheroot from between his teeth. It was only then that he noticed the folded parchment clutched in his father’s fist, and his gaze settled on that. Somehow, he understood that its contents must be the source of his father’s agitation.

After a moment, his father pushed the parchment across Gabriel’s desk, then sat in a facing chair.

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

Setting the cheroot down in an ashtray, Gabriel did as his father requested, lifting it up and unfolding the parchment carefully. The date noted was only five days past, the scribble unfamiliar. He started to turn the paper over to locate a signature, but his father shot up from his chair and prevented him with a hand. “Read it, Gabriel,” he said sternly.

Gabriel’s brows drew together as he turned the paper back over to begin.

“Dearest Mr. Smith,” he began aloud. “I realize it has been some time since our previous correspondence…”

He lapsed into silence as he continued, the tone of the letter becoming entirely too familiar.

Brows furrowed, Gabriel peered up from the letter, eyeing his father with some bewilderment. He wasn’t certain he wished to continue, but curiosity got the better of him and he continued reading, his heartbeat quickening.

The letter expounded, explaining rather directly the terms of her father’s preposterous will. She expressed with some vehemence, her distaste for the proviso, and her reluctance to comply. And yet, her tone was, in fact, resigned.

Gabriel peered up once more, uncertain how it was that he was supposed to react to the letter’s disclosure—or to his father’s apparently well-kept secret. “You’ve corresponded with her before?”

His father nodded, indicating the carton at his side. Half-heartedly, Gabriel peered into the box, finding the answer to his question. It was filled to the brim with old letters. And though his brain went suddenly numb, his hand automatically reached into the carton, withdrawing a letter... addressed to his father... from Lady Margaret Willingham—and then another. And another.

He cast an unsettled glance at his father as he removed a fistful of papers from the storage container.

Through all these years, he’d never dared seek Maggie out—not even for a fleeting glimpse—not since the day he’d left Blackwood at her father’s demand. He’d been handsomely compensated for his departure—his father, as well. In fact, Gabriel had been afforded an education the likes of which no lad of his station might ever have acquired. And for his part, his father had been given a substantial enough pension so that he, too, might enjoy the last of his days without working his fingers to nubs. And for all this, Gabriel might have been grateful, but instead he’d chosen anger as his balm and he’d wallowed in it day by day, year after year.

All this while… his father had been corresponding with her.

In Gabriel’s youthful pride, he’d vowed to eradicate Maggie from his memory, and to vindicate himself to the world. And so, he’d committed his years to furthering his assets and his influence, resolving to show Blackwood that he could make money enough to provide for any man’s daughter. But somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten his raison d’ê·tre. Growing his business and his money had become objectives unto themselves, and he’d stepped on backs aplenty to gain whatever he’d desired. Still, he’d never truly forgotten her—nor his anger. That much was painfully clear to him as he stared at the elegant scribble of her pen.

“She spent a great deal of time after you left reading in the rose arbor,” his father explained. “I got to know her well.”

Gabriel couldn’t be certain what he was feeling. And yet there was no denying the churning in his gut, or the anger he suddenly felt toward his father for keeping Margaret’s letters from him. “You never said.” His tone was clipped and cool, restrained.

It was a long, long moment before his father seemed able to find his own voice. “I thought it best, son. He gave us so much money to leave her be. He dinna even want me to be near her, and, as you know, he asked me to leave, as well. Your ma and I decided it was best to hide her letters.”

Gabriel pursed his lips, though what good would it do him to be angry now? What was done was done. The time to make things right with Margaret had long since passed. Even so, he felt a sense of emptiness as he reached into the box, his eyes scanning the addresses. There were so many letters.

“You did nothing wrong, Da. These letters are all addressed to you, not me. What concern are any of these to me.”

Once again, his father shrugged. “Before you come to any conclusions, I think you should read them, son,” he said. “All of them.”

Gabriel wanted to pick the carton up and push it across the desk, but he suddenly did need to read them. Some part of him regretted all this time never knowing how she’d fared, never having asked, never daring to insinuate himself upon her life. He’d gone through his years shoving Margaret’s image from his memory, trying not to think of her—mostly because every time he did so, he saw her face as it was the day he’d left her at the foot of their favorite hill—and felt anger anew that he’d been judged and found unfit for the princess of Blackwood. They’d been no more than children... but Gabriel had fancied himself in love with the lass, and none of the proper lovers he’d known since—even in their maturity—had ever come close to filling the void Margaret left. And yet… so much time had passed… She probably couldn’t pick him out of a crowd, and he wasn’t all that certain he would recognize her… except he could… he’d kept track of her comings and goings… from a distance.

He began to read, commencing with the letter he held in his hand, and found that, in the most recent, written within the past two years, there was no mention of Gabriel, at all.

But, he pulled out a few more and found one that had been written very soon after his departure. The entire letter was an inquiry of him: How did he fare at school? Did he ever ask about her? Did he like his new friends? Had anyone thought to send him a blanket? Because in winter one could never have enough blankets. He glanced up, his gaze drawn toward the rocker, to the blanket his mother had sent him that first winter after he’d gone to school. His eyes stung.

His father seemed to understand what he was thinking. “Your mother wept for weeks after you left. When Margaret suggested sending the blanket, she commenced to stitching it at once, and she and your sisters worked night and day to complete it. It was a very good idea.”

Gabriel turned to look into his father’s eyes. They were weary and red-rimmed over the memory he’d shared, but full of affection. “I’ve never said this to you, Gabe. Perhaps I’ll never have the chance to say it again... I love you, son. Anything we did, we did because we thought it was the right thing to do.”

“I know, Da,” Gabriel said, as he reached into the box again, eager to know more. He searched for and found a few more written about the same time: more of the same page-long inquiries.

He was vaguely aware that his father rose from the chair. “I realize it’s been a long time, son, but read them all, and I think you’ll know what to do,” he said. “In the end, a man must do what he must, son. Ye ken?”

Gabriel nodded, and his father left him to peruse the letters in privacy. The majority had been written during the first three years after his departure for Eton. And then, slowly, they’d dwindled. The final few years her letters had been sparse, nor had she asked after him any longer. A tinge of melancholy passed over him.

If he closed his eyes... he could almost remember the way she’d looked that day when she’d told him she could no longer see him... the anguished expression on her face... her beautiful hair aglow beneath the noonday sun, her green eyes sparkling with diamond-like tears.

He could hardly forget the way it made him feel.

Somehow, in all their childhood together, he’d managed to overlook the disparaging differences in the sizes of their homes. He’d managed to forget... every time she’d smiled at him... that he’d had holes in his breeches, and sleeves that were far too short. She, on the other hand, had worn silks with fragile white lace. He’d failed to comprehend what it had meant that whilst she’d had servants to tend her, his family did the serving. And then, for the first time in Gabriel’s life he’d been made painfully aware of the differences between them… that day, in his innocence, he’d promised never to forget her. God knows he’d tried, despite his vow. She’d promised never to forget him, too…

He stared at the letters scattered over his desk now—so many letters. She’d kept her promise for so long, and Gabriel realized that he’d failed her. But he could still make amends.

It wasn’t too late.

His father was right, he did know what to do. Margaret Willingham needed someone who would set her free once they were wed. He could be that man.

First thing tomorrow morning, he’d speak to Philip Goodman. She didn’t seem to understand that whatever contract her agent might be drawing up for her, no matter how solidly worded, it would be much too easily breached. Any man with suitable connections could render her prenuptial bootless with so little trouble it would make her head spin. As an attorney, Gabriel understood how effortless that undertaking could be. Even after the Hardwicke Marriage Act, which effectively tightened some of the conditions for marriage, once a husband and wife exchanged vows, the wife lost, to all intents and purposes, all rights over any property she possessed. Everything she owned came into the control and disposal of her husband—everything, even so far as herself—prenuptials be damned. Gabriel was determined to ensure that Margaret was well and duly protected. He refused to allow her to lose everything when she’d labored so long and hard to earn what little her father had bequeathed her.

But neither did Gabriel need her money. Thanks to her father’s generosity and the success of his firm, he was more than comfortable.

Knowing Margaret... she was proud and wise and barefaced... and he determined it would take nothing short of cunning to coax her into accepting his help.

Well, Goodman owed him, and with his help, Gabriel fully intended to present Margaret Willingham with a proposal she couldn’t refuse.

Oh, he had no illusions. After all these years, he realized he wasn’t the man she would have chosen to wed were her circumstances different. But he wasn’t above employing whatever Machiavellian tactics were needed to bring about the one thing he hoped would redeem him.

Whatever it took, before these nine days were through, he planned to be married to her, and, in fact, he decided it couldn’t wait until morning. He left the scattered letters precisely where they lay, and found his coat, shrugging into it as he hurried out the door, with the express purpose of paying Philip Goodman’s London residence a midnight visit.

He didn’t even bother to tell anyone where he was off to, but George knew his son very well, and the old man smiled as the front door slammed, then took himself off to bed, anticipating the first good night’s rest in a while.

Gabriel would take care of everything, he knew, and Lady Margaret Willingham would soon find herself in very good hands. “All’s well that ends well,” he said, climbing the stairs to bed with a brand new bounce in his step.