“Wherein Gabriel is out manoeuvred.”

“Wait,” Gabriel barked, as his valet knocked on his bedroom door. It was barely five am but Gabriel slept little, retiring late and rising early. The job as his valet was unlikely to be considered an enviable one, though he paid well enough to keep from losing the fellow altogether. Changes to his routine were to be avoided at all costs, and breaking in a new valet too stressful to contemplate.

Gabriel removed such items that the hotel had put out for their guests use on the dressing table, picking each item up between finger and thumb and dropping it onto the chair beside him with a look of distaste. He found the idea of using things that may have been touched by any number of people before him revolting in the extreme, and took great care to always have his own things about him. He never journeyed unexpectedly, always ensuring that everything he needed would be at his disposal the moment it was required.

Once the surface was cleared, he withdrew a handkerchief and dusted the top of the table with great care, ensuring every inch of the wood was clean. The handkerchief was then removed to be placed with his dirty clothes for washing. Next, he moved to his travel valise and began to unpack the items required for his morning toilette. Each item was placed, straightened, and arranged three times, until everything had been laid out with meticulous care. He didn’t doubt his valet had made himself comfortable while he waited, too used to what he suspected all of his staff considered their eccentric employer’s little ways to be surprised by the interlude. Only when Gabriel was certain that everything was in its precise spot did he call for his valet to enter.

Though his attention to detail might suggest otherwise, Gabriel was not in any way vain. He cared little for his own appearance, beyond that it was neat and clean, and had no time whatsoever for fashion. His hair was too long, and a constant cause of distress to his valet, who implored him to cut it, to no avail. The idea of primping and coaxing his hair into some ridiculous style each morning was horrific. A thin black velvet ribbon kept it out of his way and reasonably neat, despite being dreadfully old-fashioned. Who cared what anyone else thought of him, in any case?

Besides which, Gabriel was well aware that his rather compulsive routines took up enough of his time as it was, and though he refused to let them become any more complex, it was a constant battle. Despite telling himself daily that the feeling of dread that swept over him - if he so much as considered leaving the room before every item on the dressing table had been put in its place and checked three times - was utterly ridiculous, he couldn’t quite seem to shake off the desire to do it. If he tried, and he had tried, he’d get the strangest sensation as he walked away, a violent tingle crackling down his spine as his mouth grew dry, panic rising in his throat. He knew, too, that if he allowed it, such behaviour would creep into other areas of his life, but this, he fought, though it was an ongoing war. He knew his mind was determined to over set him, constantly undermining him and telling him he was worthless and a fool. Sometimes it won, and it felt then like his father was laughing at him, knowing he’d been right all along. So Gabriel fought. He refused to let his mind win, but each battle was hard-fought and left him increasingly exhausted.

Once he was dressed, his own items carefully packed away once more despite the fact they’d be needed again, and the hotel’s items put back exactly as they had been, he was ready to leave. He had an appointment to keep. The idea that he had another appointment this afternoon drifted into his mind only to be stamped on. If Miss Holbrook thought that he would dance to her tune, she was to be sadly disappointed.

***

The air inside the Abbey was frigid. Gabriel sat still, though, not attempting to blow on his hands or stamp his feet. He stared at the stained glass in the eastern end of the building, admiring the vibrant design as the winter-white sky beyond the glass illuminated the colours. Such vivacity had his thoughts take an unwilling turn towards a certain, irritating young woman, and Gabriel tutted, checking his watch. He couldn’t abide tardiness and his appointment was already two minutes late.

Behind him, there was the muffled thud of the Abbey door that echoed a little in the cavernous space, and a moment later, breathing heavily, a man took the seat beside him.

“Forgive me, my lord,” the fellow said, sweating profusely despite the freezing temperature. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face, pausing to wheeze and cough into it before stuffing it back into his pocket. Gabriel recoiled with distaste and shifted further away.

“Do you have it?” he demanded, without looking at the oily little man who made his skin crawl.

“N-not yet, my lord,” the man stammered, and Gabriel shot him a sharp look to see an unwholesome creature whose skin was clammy and pale, his eyes red and bloodshot. “If you could just give me a day or two more.”

“No more,” Gabriel replied, getting to his feet. “You knew the arrangement. I shall instruct my lawyers to continue.”

“But Lord DeMorte, please!”

Foolishly, the man reached out his hand, grasping Gabriel’s arm, his expression pleading. The look in Gabriel’s eyes made the fellow drop his hold on him like he’d been burned.

“Please, my lord,” he said, his breath coming fast. “It’s my home, it’s all I have left.”

Gabriel snorted, feeling no remorse for the pitiful creature. “You might have thought of that before you gambled away everything but the shirt on your back.”

“But my luck will turn any day now, it’s bound to …” the fellow insisted, his eyes glazed with desperation.

“You damned fool,” Gabriel spat, revolted by a man who could be so reckless as to lose everything he owned on the turn of a card and still believe in luck.

“But my mother,” the man said, clasping his hands together in supplication. “At least give me a day or two to make arrangements. Where will she go? I can’t afford to house her myself.”

“To her nearest relation and far from you, I would imagine,” Gabriel said with a snort. “I’ve no doubt it will be a relief for her to have you out of her sight.”

With that, he got to his feet and strode away, leaving the man to consider his actions before God, if he believed in such things.

After a visit with his lawyer, which dragged on far beyond what he had allowed for, he only just made it back to the hotel for one o’clock. As arranged, a private parlour had been prepared for him, along with a plate of cold meat; beef, ham and roast chicken, a platter of cheese, a pannier of bread, and a decanter of claret.

Gabriel waited until the staff had withdrawn and then repositioned everything on the table, noting with irritation that there were four slices of beef instead of three as requested. He picked one up, scowling at it, before throwing it onto the fire. Once satisfied all was as it should be, he sat down. He ate first the beef, then the ham, then the chicken, before reaching for the cheese and cutting one - precise - triangle from each before reaching for three slices of bread. Once finished, he poured a glass of claret - to precisely one inch below the rim.

***

The clock over the mantle in the parlour chimed two o’clock, and Gabriel glared at it, irritated by the reminder that Miss Holbrook would be waiting for him. The staff had long since cleared away, and Gabriel had settled himself to read for an hour or so. He returned his attention back to the story, but found five minutes later, and to his frustration, that he had yet to turn a page. Try as he might, the idea that Miss Holbrook was sitting waiting for him in the freezing cold, while he was here, prickled at the back of his neck. It was an uneasy, uncomfortable sensation that felt a little like guilt and it was deeply aggravating. Gabriel did not feel guilt, nor remorse, nor care in the slightest for anyone but himself. It made life a great deal simpler.

Glowering, Gabriel returned his eyes to the book and determined to read to the end of the page, which he did. It seemed a rather hopeless accomplishment, however, when he went to turn the page and couldn’t recall a word of what he’d just read.

Damnation.

It would serve the chit right if he did turn up, he thought gritting his teeth. If she was seen in his company, the talk would begin at once, the whispers about her and the kind of young woman she must be. He contemplated the idea. Perhaps he should go, at least to teach her a lesson. Perhaps if she discovered how vile and spiteful people really were, she would reconsider and give him a wide berth.

He sat still for another five minutes, fingers drumming on his thigh as irritation climbed up his neck. This was bloody ridiculous. As if he didn’t have enough obsessions to cope with, without some eccentric, wide-eyed blonde returning the favour.

Fine, he muttered, getting to his feet. Fine. The word was savage, but there was laughter running through his mind, a sneering, taunting voice that mocked him for running when the girl crooked her finger. He tried to block the voice out, reassuring himself that he would be rude and unpleasant and as foul as only he knew how to be, and then she’d never want to see him again. But the mocking voice still echoed in his head, telling him he was weak, a fool, a worthless fool.

By the time Gabriel got to Sydney Gardens, it was after half past two. He’d walked fast, his long strides eating up the distance as he hurried down Great Pulteney Street, but surely she’d be gone by now. There was a knot in his stomach at the idea, and he couldn’t decide if it was relief or disappointment. With irritation, which seemed to be his prevalent emotion whenever thinking of Miss Holbrook, he realised that she had not given their meeting place as anything other than the bridge over the canal. The foolish chit had obviously never been there before, as there were several to choose from. It took him time to check each bridge in turn, but finally he saw her.

She was leaning over an elegant iron bridge, built in the Chinese style, and Gabriel had to pause for a moment to admire the picture. She was dressed in a dark blue pelisse, her bonnet lined with the same material, the inky velvet making her blonde hair shine like gold on a day that was bleached and white and devoid of colour. Gabriel could only think again of the stained glass in the Abbey, the colours singing against the icy chill of a December sky. For no good reason he could think of, his heart felt a little lighter. He watched as Miss Holbrook stamped her feet, burying her hands deeper into the muff around her neck, and he felt another, deeply unwelcome, stab of remorse for having made her wait.

He swallowed as she looked up, the voice in his head mocking him all the harder when his first instinct was to turn around and walk away from her, as fast as he could. But the smile that broke over her lovely face made him hold still, and when she raised her hand to wave at him, he felt his fingers twitch with the ridiculous desire to return the gesture. He clenched his fists, refusing to give in to such idiotic behaviour.

Gabriel watched as she ran across the bridge towards him, and glanced around, relieved to see that the freezing weather had kept more sensible people indoors. They appeared to be alone.

“Young ladies do not run in public,” he scolded, as she scurried towards him, holding her bonnet in place with a gloved hand. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes alight with pleasure and she gave a laugh of delight. “Oh, give it up, do, Gabriel. Belle has been trying to cure me of it for years, and if she can’t, you certainly won’t.”

Gabriel tensed, infuriated and unsettled as ever by her forwardness.

“You address me as Lord DeMorte,” he growled, refusing to look her in the eyes. There was something so vivacious and alive about her it only made him feel dusty and dull in comparison. Worthless, the voice in his head muttered, and Gabriel pushed it away, only to hear it echoing over and over. He looked back at her, needing something else to think on, and grateful that she was speaking again.

“I didn’t think you were going to come,” she said, smiling up at him and looking so damn grateful that he felt positively nauseated.

“I wasn’t going to,” he said, the words terse.

Miss Holbrook slipped her hand into his arm and Gabriel tensed, torn between revulsion at her boldness and the desire to allow her to keep it there.

“I know,” she said, grinning at him now, as though she’d won a victory of some sort. With reluctance, he had to acknowledge she was right. He was here, after all. “Why did you change your mind?”

Gabriel began to walk, it was far too cold to stand still, and Miss Holbrook was clearly shivering. “Because it occurred to me that you were foolish enough to freeze yourself to death if I didn’t,” he snapped, sounding deeply aggrieved.

There was a surprisingly deep chuckle and he looked down at her, struck by the colour of those unusual eyes all over again. Today, they looked more grey than lilac, and he fancied he could see the clouds reflected in them. Scolding himself for being nauseatingly fanciful, he pulled her forward.

“I am rather chilly,” she admitted, as she quickened her steps to keep pace with him.

“It will serve you right if you catch pneumonia,” he muttered, dragging her on. There was a chill wind cutting through his coat, and if she’d been standing on that wretched bridge for the best part of an hour, she must be frozen. There was nowhere they could go indoors without fear of being seen, so he headed for the grotto, casting furtive glances around to see if anyone was about.

“There’s no one here, so you needn’t fret about my reputation,” she said, clinging to his arm and almost having to run to keep up with his strides. “No one is mad enough to walk the gardens in this weather except for us.”

Gabriel sent her an unloving look before turning his attention back to the path. “I assure you, I couldn’t give a damn about your reputation. Something you ought perhaps bear in mind, Miss Holbrook.”

“Oh, do call me Crecy, please,” she said, sounding a little impatient herself now, or perhaps she was just breathless with trying to match his pace? “After all, if I’m going to call you Gabriel …”

“I never invited you to, Miss Holbrook,” he growled, feeling his temper rise. Damnation, if there was ever a more irritating female to walk the earth, he had yet to discover her.

“No, I know,” she replied, her voice placid as he guided her around a large puddle. “But I’m going to anyway, so you may as well call me Crecy.”

Gabriel lifted his eyes to the heavens and prayed for patience before the damp gloom of the grotto swallowed them up. It was no warmer in here, he realised with regret, but at least it was out of the wind.

“Oh, what a perfect spot,” Crecy said, looking around at the moss covered walls with delight.

Gabriel snorted and shook his head. “Yes, a cold, damp cave on a freezing winter’s day. I might have known you’d be thrilled by it.”

The smile she shot him at that comment did something to his chest and he dropped his gaze, instantly wishing he hadn’t as he noticed one of her buttons was not properly slid through the hole, but was only half visible.

Gabriel instantly reached out to correct this so that it matched the others before his brain caught up and stayed his hand. She was speaking again but Gabriel didn’t hear her, all he could see was the button and need to fix it buzzed in his head like a demented blue bottle. He breathed in, trying to override the feeling of alarm as his heart picked up and wrenched his gaze away, trying to focus on something, anything else. But even before he’d settled on something, his eyes were sliding back to that damn button.

“W-what did you say?” he asked, aware that she was waiting for a reply and trying to focus.

“I said, have you brought your lovers here before?

The question was almost enough to jolt his attention from her pelisse, but not quite. He wondered what she would think if she knew the truth about him. People assumed so many things, after all. Though surely she knew that he didn’t have lovers, not any more at least. He visited whores on occasion, an impersonal exchange that he felt able to deal with. At one time, he had dallied with those experienced widowed ladies of the ton, those who had an appreciation for his cruelty and lack of care, but he’d had too many instances like with this wretched coat. Moments that made those women look at him with curiosity - at first - but he’d known scorn and ridicule would follow soon after, so that had stopped. The whores were paid well, not only for what they did, but for keeping their mouths shut.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, feeling suddenly breathless as his gaze slid back to the button once more. The desire to correct it, to slide it back through the hole was making him feel prickly and quite unable to focus on the conversation.

Crecy was staring at him now, though, her face curious. Good, at least now she’d know he really was out of his bloody mind, and would run a mile. Then he’d not be bothered by her again. Curiously, he found no satisfaction in the thought. He didn’t want her to know about his … difficulties, didn’t want her to ridicule him, but she followed his gaze, dipping her head to her buttons to see what he was staring at.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, clearly aware that he uncomfortable and not understanding why.

Gabriel took a breath, trying to keep his breathing even. “That button,” he said, gesturing to it with his hand and willing the words to sound reasonable and not like he was losing his damn mind. But you are, a snide voice whispered through his mind. He closed his eyes, ignoring it. “It isn’t done up properly. You’ll … catch cold,” he added, wincing inwardly as it sounded pathetic.

He opened his eyes again, expecting her to be looking at him with suspicion at the very least, but he found nothing but curiosity in her expression.

“It’s bothering you,” she said, voicing what was obvious even though no one else in the world would have done so. Anyone else would have politely ignored it and then sniggered behind his back.

He gave a curt nod and she stepped a little closer to him.

“Would you do it up for me, please?” she said, her tone soft.

Before his brain had even caught up, he’d reached out and slid the button through the hole. He let out a breath of relief, feeling suddenly lighter, as if he could relax and breathe easily again. His fingers still held the button, circling the circumference with his thumb. Finally able to lift his gaze from it he found himself staring instead into the eyes of the young woman before him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, the words hard now, wishing that she would go as badly as he hoped she would stay. “I’ll ruin everything. I’ll do it on purpose.” As warnings went, it was stark and to the point, and yet he should not have been surprised when she clutched at his lapels and stood on her toes, pressing her mouth to his.