Fallen Angel Read Free Page A

present, specifically my Lords Marwood and Ibbetson, who pounced on Gabriel the moment he walked through the door.
    “Ah, my dear Sherington,” Marwood began with hearty joviality in his voice, “just the man I have been wishing to see. I was meeting with Perceval the other day, and he asked me as a personal favor to do my best to persuade you to take your seat in the House of Lords this coming year. We can always use another staunch Whig of your caliber, don’t you know.”
    “Well, you may tell Mr. Perceval that you have followed your orders,” Gabriel said smoothly.
    “Then we can expect to see you in Parliament soon?” Marwood asked, a look of growing delight on his face.
    “On the contrary, I think it is highly unlikely that I shall be there this year, but you have certainly done all you can do to persuade me,” Gabriel replied.
    Marwood’s face became extremely red, but before he had a chance to say anything further, Gabriel adroitly sidestepped him, only to find his way blocked by Ibbetson, a short, pudgy man whose aspirations inclined more toward dandyism than toward political power.
    “Now, now, Marwood,” Ibbetson said cheerfully, “can’t you see Sherington and I ain’t interested in listening to a flock of old windbags drone on and on. We’ve got better things to do with our time.”
    Mentally Gabriel lifted an eyebrow at the use of the word “we.” Although since his return to England he had encountered Ibbetson at half a dozen social events around London, they were at most nodding acquaintances, and not at all close friends.
    In truth, there were but few men Gabriel called friend, and none of them were at the moment residing in England. Here in London, however, there was an unfortunate overabundance of toadeaters, sycophants, and bootlickers who sought out his company virtually every time he set foot outside his own house, and who appeared overcome with delight whenever he deigned to snub them or even when he insulted them quite rudely.
    His lack of friends did not disturb him in the slightest, and as for the others who sought to ingratiate themselves, their attempts to manipulate him inevitably worked to his advantage rather than to their own.
    He strongly doubted that he could benefit from an association with Ibbetson. But on the other hand, on such a gray day when he had no other pressing business, it might prove amusing to discover what ulterior motive was lurking behind Ibbetson’s smile, which was every bit as false as Marwood’s joviality.
    “What did you have in mind?” Gabriel asked, making no particular effort to be genial.
    “Thought you might like to play a hand or two of piquet,” Ibbetson said gamely, although Gabriel could see that his cool attitude was making the man more and more uncomfortable.
    “Pshaw!” Marwood said rudely, attempting to elbow Ibbetson aside. “Sherington is no more a gamester than he is a politician. I have no idea why he bothered to join the club in the first place since he does not care for deep play.”
    Seeing an opportunity to deflate the overly pompous Marwood, who although not old, could definitely be described as a boring windbag, Gabriel said, “I shall be delighted to play a game of piquet with you.”
    “Told you so,” Ibbetson said with a smirk, and Marwood turned on his heel and stalked away, his displeasure clearly written on his face.
    “I must warn you that I have had little experience with this game,” Gabriel said quite mendaciously. If Ibbetson thought him a plump pigeon to pluck, he would find to his sorrow that he had chosen the wrong mark.
    “Never you worry,” Ibbetson said, the light of victory already gleaming in his eyes. “This will be just a friendly little game.” He led the way to a small table at the opposite side of the room from where half a dozen other members were playing faro, and then signaled a waiter to bring them a fresh deck of cards.
    Gabriel played cautiously at first, not wanting to give his