Dancing with a Rogue

by Potter, Patricia;

  One of the two was a woman. He hadn’t seen another woman in the establishments he’d frequented, but he supposed it was not that odd. A courtesan, perhaps even a rebellious daughter of a member of the ton.

  But as his gaze riveted on her, a shock ran through him.

  She was striking. Dark hair framed a face that could never be dismissed lightly. Her gaze met his. In the soft glow cast by a gaslight above, he saw gray eyes widen as if she recognized him.

  They had never met. Yet he would swear she was the woman he’d watch disembark from the French ship.

  He stepped forward and bowed, “Miss …?”

  The man at her side tried to hustle her along. She halted and tilted her head in question. “Do I know you, monsieur?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “Though—”

  “Then I ask you to step aside.” Her companion inserted himself between him and the lady. Since Gabriel was at least half a foot taller and a good deal more muscular, it was an act of courage.

  “I did not mean to intrude,” he said.

  Her lashes fluttered for a moment as if she was confused, but nothing else about her showed indecision.

  He couldn’t help staring at her, wondering what there was about her that had captured his attention as no other woman had.

  Do not forget why you are in London.

  But wasn’t staring and being a bore exactly what he should be doing?

  Trouble was, it wasn’t an act.

  Damn it, why did he feel like a schoolboy with his first crush? She was a woman, nothing more, and quite obviously not a lady if she was emerging from a gambling hell.

  Yet she appeared the epitome of what he felt a lady should be, her body carried with an elegance and grace that couldn’t be feigned. Her chin was high, and her eyes danced with life.

  Who was she?

  A bore would ask. But he discovered he didn’t want to be a bore. Not with her.

  Play your role. One slip and you might well fail.

  “Monsieur?”

  “I am the Marquess of Manchester,” he said, bowing again, suddenly wishing he was better dressed. He looked like a peacock.

  “How nice for you,” she said, but her eyes were curious, as if she saw beneath the pose.

  “And you are …”

  At the mention of his title, the thin little man next to her dropped some of his hostility.

  “Monique Fremont,” he said. “She will be the star of my next production at the new theater on Charles Street. I am Mr. Lynch, the manager of the company.”

  An actress. He found his breath returning to him. So that was why she had such presence. And why she dared enter a hell patronized totally by men.

  “My pleasure,” he said. “I will be at the first performance.”

  “You had better hurry to obtain seats,” her companion said. “The play should sell out quickly.”

  “I can understand why,” Gabriel said, his gaze fastened on the woman again. She wore a loose gray cloak, but even so he could see the swell of her breasts.

  He couldn’t help but study her face more closely. Not beautiful. But very arresting with the angular bones and wide mouth and great gray eyes. It wasn’t the physical appearance that fascinated him so much as the amusement in her eyes and the blinding smile that suddenly lit her face.

  A hand tugged at his sleeve, reminding him of his reluctant companion. “My solicitor, Mr. Pickwick,” he finally said.

  Pickwick bowed with an awkward eagerness that seemed totally out of character. He’d been complaining all evening, and now he was practically beaming.

  Did the woman do that to everyone? He didn’t want to think so. He wanted to believe that smile was meant for him alone.

  But then she turned away, and she and her companion entered a carriage. It clattered down the street, leaving him and his companion standing alone.

  “A fine looking woman,” he said.

  Pickwick seemed transfixed. “Yes,” he said.

  “But just a woman,” Gabriel added, knowing he was trying to convince himself.

  “I think not,” Pickwick said soberly. “A woman like that is trouble.”

  Monique didn’t understand the heat that suddenly coursed through her body when the odd marquess accosted her.

  He had been far too familiar, far too bold, and he looked a wastrel, the type of man she usually despised. He had no sense of fashion, though his clothing was obviously expensive. And the wig … abominable.

  He was another noble with too much money and too little sense. And an odd accent. She thought it could be American. But he had introduced himself as a marquess.

  Something familiar tugged at her mind. She had seen him somewhere before.

  The image of the man on the ship returned. Ah, but he was a man. The short cropped hair, the shirt and tight breeches. Nothing like the mismatched noble. And yet …

  Perhaps it was the way his gaze lingered on her, not lustfully as did that of so many men, but with a different kind of appreciation.

  She was imagining things.

  Besides, she had other things to worry about tonight, mainly her escort, who was inching closer and closer to her in the carriage. She had fended him off last night as being too weary from the journey.

  She had the same excuse tonight. She had worked hard at the first rehearsal today. The play was a comedy and called for sparkling repartee. Her leading man, Richard Taylor, was competent, but he, too, had hands that never quite knew where they belonged.

  It wasn’t under her dress.

  Between learning lines, and taking measure of her fellow thespians and fending off questions, she was quite exhausted, especially after a night visiting gaming hells.

  She had won consistently. She was a good player, although she had feigned incompetence. She’d been taught by fellow thespians in Paris and was usually blessed by good luck. Tonight the dice had been good, the cards better. Everywhere she went, she attracted attentive onlookers.

  Tomorrow, Lynch told her, she would probably be in all the papers. The new French actress who defied convention and had amazingly good fortune at the cards.

  “Your name will be on every tongue tomorrow,” Lynch said, as if reading her mind. He still hadn’t decided whether the notoriety would be good or bad for his new production. She had finally convinced him it would be very good.

  They arrived back at the town house and Lynch stepped down, then offered his hand. She took it and easily descended.

  She paused at the door and turned around. She saw in his face that he expected an invitation inside.

  “Merci,” she said. “You have been so very kind.”

  “The night is still young.”

  “The night is very old,” she replied. “And I wish to do well for your play.”

  “You will do very well. Richard likes you and that is very rare. He usually hates the leading lady.”

  “He’s very good. As are the rest of the players.”

  “I try to find the best,” he said, his gaze taking on the brooding, hooded look that men usually thought was sexy. “Can we not go in and have a glass of brandy?”

  “I have had so much champagne that I am spinning,” she said.

  “Then I will help you inside.”

  She ignored his suggestion and rapped on the door. In seconds it opened and Dani stood on the other side.

  Monique leaned over and kissed Lynch lightly on the cheek. “You are so kind,” she said. “But Dani can help me now. And there is a rehearsal tomorrow, is that not so? You will want me to have the proper rest, non?”

  “Yes, but …”

  By then she was inside and closing the door.

  Danielle winked.

  “I am getting too old for this.”

  “You will never be old, mademoiselle. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Not yet, Dani, but I’m still baiting the trap.”

  “Would you like something to eat?”

  “I would. And some tea. I wan
t to read the lines again. It is a good play. Clever. I think it will be a success.”

  “All your plays are a success,” Dani said loyally.

  “Oui, but this one … is far more important.”

  “And when you finish?”

  They had not talked about the “after” of this play. It would be tempting fate.

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I haven’t thought about it.”

  And she hadn’t.

  “You will stay here?”

  “Possibly. England was my mother’s home. But …”

  “But?”

  “We are after a very powerful and ruthless man. I am not thinking ahead.”

  Dani helped her off with her dress and into a night robe, then disappeared toward the kitchen.

  Monique took the pins from her hair and started brushing it. Her thoughts were on the man she so wanted to bring to his knees. What would she feel when she met him? The man who had given her life, then tried to take both her mother’s and her own.

  Then they drifted again to the marquess she’d met outside the gaming hall. She wondered why. There was nothing of interest about him. Nothing at all. Nothing but that fraction of a second when …

  Nonsense. Nothing but nonsense.

  She sighed, feeling suddenly lonely. She seldom did that. She refused to let loneliness into her life. It was a defeating emotion.

  But now she felt alone and lost. Not even the prospect of Dani’s tea stemmed the wave of foreboding that suddenly swept over her.

  Chapter Four

  The line stretched out of Gabriel’s new lodgings and down the block. He never would have expected such a response from one small advertisement for a valet and housekeeper.

  He hadn’t asked Pickwick to help him in this. He wanted servants he could trust.

  Several of the applicants gave the army and sea as their last employment. The war with America had ended and so had the one with France. Soldiers and sailors were frantic to find means to feed their families and themselves.

  Others were qualified servants who had lost employment through no fault of their own and presented extensive references. Some applicants he wouldn’t trust farther than he could throw them.

  His attention riveted though on a tall, stocky man with a quiet countenance and a face both determined but weary.

  Sydney Smythe was a former army sergeant. His eyes had been without hope when he’d entered Gabriel’s study, but he didn’t embellish his qualifications as so many others did.

  Gabriel had always been an astute judge of character and he knew instantly that this was his man. When Gabriel had asked whether he’d ever served in a household before, Smythe said simply, “No, milord, but I am a hard worker and I learn fast.”

  “And why choose this work now?”

  “There is no other, milord.”

  “I would not wish an unhappy valet.”

  “Milord, I would be the happiest man in London. I have a mum and sister who are hungry.”

  His brown eyes had not pleaded. Gabriel sensed he was not a man to plead, but hope was beginning to shine in his face. Through it all, dignity remained solid. Smythe was the type of man he would have liked at his side during the war.

  “Well, I’ve not been a gentleman before, Sydney, so perhaps we can learn together.”

  The man stood there, disbelieving. “Milord?”

  “You are employed, Smythe. Two pounds a week.”

  A muscle in the man’s throat pulsed. “But that … is too generous, milord.”

  “I ask only one thing from you,” Gabriel said. “Total loyalty. Can you give me that?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  Gabriel believed him.

  “Then you can dismiss the rest of the men and interview the women for the post of housekeeper.”

  The man stood there for a moment.

  “Yes?” Gabriel said.

  “My mum. She’s a fine cook.”

  “Can she clean?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Tell her to come by in the morning. I will talk to her.”

  “I … I …” The man seemed to shake slightly. “Thank you, milord. I will do my best for you.”

  “Then do not be too curious, Smythe,” he said. “That will be thanks enough.”

  “No, milord. No.” He started to back away. “I can start today.”

  “Just turn the others away, and bring your mother in the morning. You can begin then.” He fished in the drawer of his desk, taking out several coins. “You will need some clothes. See if you can find something today.”

  “What would you prefer?”

  Gabriel waved his hand. Smythe still wore the worn remnants of a uniform. “I care not.” He paused. “And get your family something to eat. It can come from your first month’s wages.”

  For the first time, the man’s face broke into a smile.

  “Yes, milord. Thank you.”

  Gabriel turned away. In truth, he was humbled by the poverty and desperation he’d seen today.

  He wondered whether the man’s gratitude would continue when he heard the rumors about his employer being a wastrel and an American upstart. Or even caught wind, somehow, that he had been a member of the American forces that had so recently defeated his country.

  Yet, oddly enough, he’d felt an instant affinity for the man. Of course, others standing in line had been desperate too, but there was a dignity in Smythe that conveyed a sense of honor. Gabriel thought he would be loyal.

  He didn’t want to pretend twenty-four hours a day.

  And what would he do for those hours spent away from the gambling hells?

  Gabriel had worked nearly every day since the moment his father had killed himself. He had made himself useful on the voyage to America and earned a few farthings. And when they had arrived in Boston, they were taken in by his mother’s sister.

  Her husband had been a wealthy banker but had been barely tolerant of his wife’s relatives. Gabriel had decided the first day he would at least try to repay the charity. He had gone to school and worked every spare hour at a shipyard doing every menial job no one else was willing to do.

  Eventually his uncle accepted him, even came to respect him, but Gabriel had stubbornly rejected help. He never forgot all the slights, the discourtesies that had eroded his mother’s spirit day by day. He was seventeen the day his mother died. He’d left his uncle’s house the next day.

  He’d been befriended by the owner of the shipping company where he had worked, and he was offered a seaman’s post. He’d worked hard enough to catch the eye of the captain, who promoted him. In eight years he’d become a first mate, and had just been named captain when war with Britain broke out. He’d become a privateer, then an officer in the navy.

  He liked work. He liked being occupied, and being merely a gentleman was not to his liking.

  But being exactly that would fit the portrait of a man ripe for the picking. He would have to squander his hours.

  At least tomorrow he would have a cook. He hoped she was a good one.

  He spent an hour dressing, trying to tie his cravat into an elaborate knot. He swore frequently. He’d never cared much about appearances and had always tied his neckcloth rather carelessly. He doubted whether his new valet would have much more expertise than he.

  The London dandy treasured his cravat. No self-respecting new lord could do less. Pickwick had assisted him the last two evenings.

  Now he was on his own. Tonight he would troll alone. He’d decided Pickwick didn’t want him to find the men he was seeking. Which probably meant Pickwick knew exactly what happened all those years ago.

  He finally achieved the result he wanted with the cravat. Not quite perfect. But pretentious.

  He added a quizzing glass to his attire, letting it dangle from a buttonhole. Then he chose one of the canes he’d recently purchased, tucked it under his arm, and sallied forth.

  Gabriel knew he would represent a target. He was big, at least in heig
ht, and—when he wished—he could intimidate the hell out of most people. But in these clothes, and with the vapid expression he’d perfected, he would be the prime mark for thieves. They might be in for a bit of surprise. He’d learned brawling early in his career at sea.

  He planned to take supper at a tavern, then he would begin prowling on his own through London’s clubs and gambling hells. He now knew most of the rules, where he would be accepted and where not. He might even try to take on a club where he knew he would be barred.

  A fine ruckus was what he needed.

  He locked the door of the town house behind him. He’d been very careful as to what he’d brought with him. He wanted nothing to give him away, to reveal, in truth, that the new Marquess of Manchester was also one John Manning, a respected and feared American captain.

  For that one reason, he’d used his middle name—John—since the days he’d left his uncle’s home. He’d known then what he was going to do.

  The plan had festered for a long time.

  Now he was Gabriel again, a simple American who had just fallen into luck.

  He walked the streets, sometimes reaching for his quizzing glass to ogle a lady or a carriage in the street. It took a certain amount of practice to keep the bloody thing in his eye.

  With every lady he passed, his thoughts returned to the actress, Monique Fremont. Every other woman looked colorless. Dull. Lifeless. She had literally brimmed with life, her eyes full of amusement that was part real humor and part sardonic. Unusual for a woman.

  He wondered whether she had felt the same jolt of awareness he had, but then why would she? He was a fop. A dandy. A useless man with a title he’d neither earned nor deserved.

  His thoughts turned again to Pickwick.

  Pickwick had been efficient about the lodgings Gabriel had just let. He’d been efficient in obtaining the services of a good, if supercilious tailor. He’d also been helpful in introducing him to London’s nightlife, though Gabriel would have sworn that there were places he was not being taken for Pickwick’s own reasons.

  Gabriel found a lad hawking one of the city’s newspapers, gave him double the amount demanded, and entered a tavern, where he chose a seat by the window.

  Gabriel had been checking the newspapers for several days, finding this one to be the most likely to contain gossip. He ordered an ale and a meat pie, then glanced through the paper.