“That’s nothing but bitchful thinking,” Pandora said calmly. “He hasn’t visited you, or he would have told me.”
Mrs. Black was clearly “picking for a fight,” as Winterborne would have put it. “He’ll never be faithful to you. Everyone knows you’re a peculiar girl who tricked him into marriage. He appreciates novelty, to be sure, but it will wear off, and then he’ll send you packing to some remote country house.”
Pandora was filled with a confusing mixture of feelings. Jealousy, because this woman had known Gabriel intimately, and had meant something to him . . . and antagonism, but also a stirring of pity, because there was something wounded in the biting darkness of her eyes. Behind the stunning façade, she was a savagely unhappy woman.
“I’m sure you think that’s what I should fear,” Pandora said, “but I actually don’t worry about that at all. I didn’t trick him, by the way.” She paused before adding, “I’ll admit to being peculiar. But he seems to like that.”
She saw a twitch of perplexity between those perfect brows, and realized the other woman had expected a different reaction, perhaps tears or rage. Mrs. Black wanted to do battle, because in her view Pandora had stolen away a man she cared about. How painful it must be every time she realized she would never have Gabriel in her arms again. “I’m sorry,” Pandora said softly. “These past few weeks must have been dreadful for you.”
Mrs. Black’s gaze turned poisonous. “Don’t you dare condescend to me.”
Becoming aware that Pandora was talking to someone, Helen turned around and blanched as she saw the American woman. She extended a protective arm around Pandora.
“It’s all right,” Pandora told her sister. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
Unfortunately, that wasn’t quite accurate. In the next moment Gabriel had reached them, his eyes light and murderous. He hardly seemed to notice Pandora or Helen, all his attention riveted on Mrs. Black. “Have you gone mad?” he asked the American woman in a quiet voice that curdled Pandora’s blood. “Approaching my wife—”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Pandora broke in hastily.
By this time, the group of Ladies’ Book Club members had swiveled en masse to watch the growing scene.
Closing his hand around one of Mrs. Black’s gloved wrists, Gabriel muttered, “I’m going to talk to you.”
“What about me?” Pandora protested.
“Go to the carriage,” he told her brusquely. “It’s in front of the portico now.”
Pandora glanced at the row of vehicles. Their carriage had indeed drawn up to the curbstone, and she caught a glimpse of Dragon dressed in his livery. However, something in her rebelled at the idea of going to the carriage like a dog that had just been commanded to slink off to its kennel. Even worse, Mrs. Black was sending her a triumphant glance behind Gabriel’s back, having succeeded in gaining the attention she’d craved.
“Now see here—” Pandora began, “I don’t think—”
Another man joined the conversation. “Take your hand off my wife.” The saw-toothed voice belonged to the American ambassador. He regarded Gabriel with a sort of resigned hostility, as if they were a pair of reluctant roosters who’d just been thrown into a cockpit.
The situation was worsening rapidly. Pandora looked at Helen in alarm. “Help,” she whispered.
Helen, bless her, swept into action, moving between the two men. “Ambassador Black, I am Lady Helen Winterborne. Do forgive my forwardness, but I thought perhaps we might have met at Mr. Disraeli’s dinner last month?”
The older man blinked, caught off guard by the sudden appearance of a luminous young woman with silver-blonde hair and the eyes of an angel. He didn’t dare treat her discourteously. “I don’t recall having had the honor.”
To Pandora’s satisfaction, she saw Gabriel release Mrs. Black’s arm.
“And here is Mr. Winterborne,” Helen said, barely concealing her relief as her husband arrived to help defuse the situation.
Winterborne exchanged a swift glance with Gabriel, silent messages flying through the air like invisible arrows. Looking composed and capable, Winterborne began to make conversation with the ambassador, who replied stiffly. It would have been difficult to imagine a more awkward scene, with Helen and Winterborne behaving as if nothing were amiss, while Gabriel stood there in a silent fury. And Mrs. Black was reveling silently in the turmoil she’d created, having proved—at least, in her mind—that she was still a significant part of Gabriel’s life. She fairly glowed with excitement.
Any flicker of sympathy Pandora had felt for the woman had vanished. She was rather annoyed with Gabriel for falling right in with Mrs. Black’s plan, by reacting angrily when he should have simply ignored her. It had been atrociously easy for Gabriel’s former mistress to drag his male instincts down to the level of the farmyard.
Sighing shortly, Pandora reflected that she probably should go to the carriage. Her presence wasn’t helping at all, and she was feeling more exasperated by the minute. Even Dragon’s limited reserves of conversation would be better than this. Stepping back from the group, she looked for the clearest path to the curbstone.
“Milady,” someone said hesitantly. “Lady St. Vincent?”
Pandora’s gaze fell upon the lone figure of a woman standing beside a Corinthian column at the end of the portico. She was wearing a plain bonnet, a dark dress, and a blue shawl. As the woman smiled, Pandora recognized her.