She played with her fan. “You are … most amiable, monsieur.”
“You are the talk of all of London. Every eye is on you.”
“I think not, monsieur.”
“Ah, a modest woman.”
Her stomach was queasy. She’d never imagined she would feel the fear he evoked in her. There was something distinctly evil about him, and it sent quivers up her back.
His blood ran through her. Was she anything at all like him? Was her quest for vengeance as wicked as his actions?
Justice, she told herself. She was seeking justice. How many women other than her mother had he destroyed?
“Do you have a family, monsieur?” she asked.
“A daughter,” he said.
“Oh, is she here in London with you?”
“She stays with her aunt,” he said shortly. “She needs a woman’s influence.”
“But surely the season …”
“Pamela is rather shy.”
“And your wife?” She already knew the answer, but she wanted him to say it. She also wondered about her half sister. What kind of life did she have?
“Mary died ten years ago,” he said shortly.
She ignored the warning in his voice. “You have not remarried?”
He stopped and looked down at her. “I enjoy the company of beautiful women,” he said.
“And that excludes marriage?” she said, fanning herself.
“I like new challenges.” His eyes glittered with a brightness that was frightening.
“And then you discard them?” she asked.
“There are no complaints,” he assured her.
A chill ran through her. She took another step, but his hand stopped her from moving farther. “I pay whatever is necessary to get what I want,” he said.
“Money is not important to me.”
“Money is important to everyone.”
“Truly, monsieur? More important than anything else? Than your daughter?”
“You can do anything if you have money,” he said. “My daughter is fortunate. She has the finest in clothes, in jewelry. I can give the same to you.”
“That is most flattering, monsieur,” she said, ignoring his title. “But for the moment I am most satisfied with my life. I enjoy the theater. I have no need of anything more.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes.
“I would like for you to visit my house,” he said. “You will like it.”
“It would not be … proper, my lord. A visit to your home alone and I would be known as your mistress.”
He seemed to hesitate, then said, “Then will you come if there are others there? I am planning a soiree at the end of the week. I would be most pleased if you could attend.”
She raised an eyebrow. “An actress, my lord?”
He shrugged.
“May I bring an escort?”
“Who?”
“It would be someone respectable,” she assured him.
He hesitated.
“We will make it some other time, then.”
“You may bring whomever you wish,” he said after a momentary pause. “And now will you attend the concert with me? I have a supper box.”
“You like music?”
“Yes,” he replied.
That surprised her. One thing they apparently had in common. She didn’t want anything in common.
They strolled to the concert area, and she realized her hood did not give her the anonymity that she’d wanted. But now she did not care. Her carefree evening with a friend had been destroyed, and now she was playing a role again.
He helped them into the box and started to close the door on Dani.
“If Danielle doesn’t join us, I will not stay,” she said.
Stanhope looked startled, irritated, then reopened the door and placed a chair at the back, as far from the two of them as he could.
A chamber orchestra played Mozart. Music usually enthralled her, but tonight she was too aware of the man next to her and the many sly glances directed their way.
It was what she wanted. Part of her plan.
But with every passing second, she wondered whether she could really do what she had planned all the years she had cared for her mother, watching as desperation and grief and shame ate away at the beauty Monique remembered. She stole a glance around. It caught a man standing not far away with what looked like a family group. A pretty young child. A woman whose clothing spoke of a lower class. The child’s eyes glittered with excitement, and her hair was the same color as the marquess’s. She looked up at Lord Manchester with adoration.
Her blood froze as her gaze met Lord Manchester’s and locked. The warmth of the other day was gone, and yet an emotion burned deep within. He seemed as unable to look away as she did. She didn’t miss a quick flash of contempt, though.
Then she heard a cough next to her.
She turned her attention back to Stanhope.
A lump formed in her throat. Was the child a by-blow of the Marquess of Manchester?
And why should she be surprised if she was?
Still, she felt a sickness deep inside. She knew the pain of being a bastard child.
“Who is that?” Stanhope’s displeasure was clear in the way he emphasized the last word.
“The Marquess of Manchester,” she replied. “He gave me some assistance several days ago.”
Stanhope visibly stiffened, and he turned to study the small family group several aisles away. “An odd group. I did not know he had a child.”
Monique shrugged indifferently. “I did not talk to him at any length. I know nothing of his personal life.”
Stanhope’s eyes questioned her statement, and she wondered how much she had given away in that too-long glance at Manchester. She was slipping. She usually was excellent at hiding emotions.
It was just that she’d thought Manchester, despite his dandy pretensions, had been different from the men she’d known.
“He is a gambler,” Stanhope said, “and not a very lucky one from the rumors.”
“I do not read gossip,” she said.
Someone frowned at them for talking during the music, and she gratefully lapsed into silence. She did not look back again toward the marquess, but she was more than a little aware of his presence.
She tried to lose herself in a Mozart concerto, but her skin tingled with awareness. She used her fan to cool skin too warm for a cool night.
Then the concert was over and the sky exploded with fireworks. Rockets transformed the dark blue velvet of an English night with trails of molten gold, then spectacular bursts of color. She used the distraction to turn around.
The Marquess of Manchester was gone.
Chapter Seven
The day following the concert Gabriel left his town house for the waterfront.
He left dressed in some plain but warm garments he had purchased in Boston. Within an hour he’d found a disreputable drunk who didn’t blink when asked for an exchange of clothing. Alcohol, no doubt, convinced the man that Gabriel was a fool.
The clothes were soiled, but Gabriel had dressed in dirty clothes before. Working in the wet hold of a ship taught one not to be overly concerned with niceties. A down-on-his-luck sailor wouldn’t own even the least of Gabriel’s wardrobe.
He wanted to know more about Stanhope’s shipping company. The shipping company that once belonged to Gabriel’s father.
He had purposely not shaved that morning, and he’d rubbed a bit of dirt on his face. He knew sailors. Hell, he’d been one much of his life. He knew how to talk to them, how to become one of them.
His first stop was a riverfront tavern.
He quickly discovered that the sailors had no love for Stanhope’s company. Despite the fact that the company initially offered sailors a higher than ordinary salary, life, apparently, was hell on the ships. The food was usually rotten, the discipline harsh, the ships kept in poor repair.
Many sailors had been drugged, then taken to the ships.
Yet nothing seemed to touch Stanhope. There were rumors of important connections, but no one could identify exactly who that protection was.
Gabriel wondered whether the earl had the same connections twenty years ago.
In one tavern that appeared to be patronized by a particularly villainous looking group of ruffians, he broached the subject of duplicating a seal. After bargaining, he promised to pay twenty pounds for a duplicate.
It was a fortune in this part of London.
“’Ow do I know ye can pay?”
The man had a patch over one eye, and the other one had larceny in it.
Gabriel shrugged.
“’Ow did someone like ye get that much blunt?”
“None of your affair.”
The man eyed with him a malevolent glare, then held out his hand for the Stanhope seal.
Gabriel shook his head. “I want to meet with the … artist.”
“’Ow do I know ye won’t cut me out?”
“Faith, my good fellow. Faith.”
“I am not yer good fellow.”
“I can see that, which is why I chose you,” Gabriel said with a grin he knew was as fearsome as his companion’s. He had learned from the best. “Now do you wish to earn a fee or not? If not, I will find someone who will.”
“Who are ye?”
Gabriel just looked at him. “I need a seal. Nothing more. And you should know that if you tell anyone about me, I’ll be forced to protect my privacy.” He made his voice as brittle and hard as hail striking cobblestones.
“Ye play fair wi’ me, I will do the same,” the man said, obviously making up his mind. “Come wi’ me.”
They left the tavern together. Gabriel followed the man through some alleys. Then he stopped. “Put this over yer eyes.”
It was a dirty scarf. Gabriel wasn’t enough of a fool to be led around London’s dark allies blindfolded.
“No,” he said.
“He’ll kill me if I take ye to him.”
Gabriel didn’t like the looks of the area, nor the shadows. He grabbed the bandit by his rough jacket. “Then tell him I can be trusted. I can find out who you are. Where you live. You betray me and I will kill you. If you do not, I will make it worth your while. I will have more work for you.”
The man barely nodded his head.
“Your name?” Gabriel asked.
“Jack.”
“Just Jack?”
“Jack Pryor.”
“And if I ask around, what will I learn about Jack Pryor?”
Jack didn’t say anything.
“Are you married, Jack?”
“Do I look the nodcock?”
Gabriel arched an eyebrow. “Let’s get on with it.”
The man didn’t move. “You talk strangely.”
“I’ve been a sailor fifteen years,” Gabriel said.
“Let me see your hands.”
Gabriel held them out. Calluses were quite evident. That was why he usually wore gloves.
Jack nodded with satisfaction. “Follow me.”
Gabriel did so, marking streets as he went. It was a good exercise for a mind plagued since last night with the sight of Monique and Stanhope.
He had not known who the man was until he heard someone in the crowd whispering his name—and not in a complimentary way.
Monique Fremont and Thomas Kane, the Earl of Stanhope. The very image of the two together had made him queasy. So queasy that he had hustled his guests to the side of the park with the excuse that he was thirsty. He had brought them all punch before their journey home and he had listened to Elizabeth chatter with excitement.
For once, she’d lost her shyness in her excitement. The outing had been worth every pence and every moment for the joy that transformed her face into something truly remarkable.
But he couldn’t get Monique Fremont’s elegant face, graceful bearing, and cool gray eyes from his head. He had not last night. He couldn’t do it today. Not even this trip into the bowels of London’s dark side darkened the brightness of the mental image he had of her.
Not even the memory of her smiling up at the man he hated most in the world.
He had vowed to erase that image by taking the next step in the ruination of Stanhope.
He wondered whether it would be the ruination of himself as well.
He shook the notion away as they arrived at a print shop. Jack went in, stayed several moments, then emerged and motioned for Gabriel to accompany him inside.
The space was completely filled with tables, where broadsheets of one sort or another were filed high. There was a workbench with trays of type scattered over it. There was a bench in front of it.
An elderly, frail-looking man with glasses perched on his nose sat in the midst of what looked like chaos. He looked as if a wind might blow him over, but then as Gabriel studied him closer he saw that what looked thin was actually wiry. There was strength in that small body. The glasses and face made him look benevolent until Gabriel looked closer into his eyes.
They were like mirrors. They studied him like he was a bug on the wall. Then, “You want Stanhope.” No question was in the statement.
Gabriel did not reply for a slice of a moment.
The man seemed to force himself to take his eyes from him. He turned to Jack. “Go and watch outside.”
Surprisingly, Jack immediately did as he was told.
Once he was gone, the printer looked at him for a long time. “Why?”
Gabriel shrugged. “Why what?”
“Jack recognized the seal. You want something from Stanhope. What and why?”
“I am doing a favor for someone.”
“The only reason someone would want another’s seal is to forge a document.”
“I could think of other reasons.”
“You dress like a common seaman. You don’t talk like one.”
“I could, but then I would be insulting you.”
“You’re Manchester. You look like your father and I heard you were in London.”
“Yes.” There was no reason to hide it.
“Stanhope framed your father and stole the company.”
Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “How did you know that?”
“I know everything that happens on the London docks,” the printer said flatly.
“Did you know my father?”
The man nodded and fixed an unblinking stare on Manchester. “Why do you want the seal?”
“I have a use for it.”
“I hear you gamble. Why should I trust you with something that could bring the runners to my business?”
“Do you think I’m a fool?”
“To come here alone with Jack, yes.”
“He and I came to an understanding.”
“An understanding like that can get you killed.”
“I can take care of myself,” Gabriel said.
“I think you can,” the printer said slowly. “So why play the fool?”
Gabriel didn’t reply.
“You look like your father but you are not like him. He trusted people.”
“And it killed him.”
“I will make your seal.”
“I might also need some documents forged.”
The printer nodded. “I can do that.” He stood, and his head came to Gabriel’s chest. “I’m Winsley,” he said slowly. “Your father helped me start this business. Stanhope has ruined more people than your father. I would like to see him destroyed. You might be the person who can do it.”
“It’s said he might have important friends,” Gabriel said.
“No one claims him as such,” Winsley said. “But no one seems to be able to call him to accounts, either.”
“Can you sell stones for me?”
“Stolen stones?”
“Found stones,” Gabriel said.
“Don’t be too ambitious, young Manning.”
“I haven’t been young since I saw my father on the floor, blood pouring from his head.”
“I will do what I can for you. When do you need the seal?”
“As soon as possible. I hope to return it before it is missed.”
“A few days then,” Winsley said.
“Should I come here?”
“No. Someone will bring it to you.”
Gabriel nodded. “I will have your money then.”
“I am pleased to see you were not foolish enough to bring it with you.”
“I have been at sea a long time. I know seaports.”
“You are not an ordinary seaman.”
“I was for a number of years. I captain a ship now.”
“Ah. I suspected as much. Even in those clothes, you have the look of a leader.”
“I hope to hell not.”
“You let your guard down.”
“I will have to watch that.”
“You put me at risk, too.”
Gabriel looked around the shop. It was covered with dust. “Then why are you a forger?”
“I asked some questions about Stanhope. He nearly destroyed my business, warning away people. Some people he couldn’t warn away.”
Luck or coincidence? Or did Stanhope’s business dealings affect far more people than he’d thought?
Or could it be a trap? Perhaps Stanhope had missed the seal and sent Jack to spy on him.
Perhaps.…
He wondered whether his eyes showed what he was feeling.
But the man only turned away, effectively dismissing him.
Gabriel went into the front of the shop. Jack was there, waiting.
“I can find my own way back,” Gabriel said, handing him a half of a crown.
“Did ye get what ye wanted?”
Gabriel shrugged. “My thanks for your help.”
“I don’t want yer thanks. I want yer blunt.”
Gabriel looked at him. “I suspect you will have a great deal more.”
He headed for the door, then the street, glancing around him as any sane man would do in the immediate area.
But even as he did, he was thinking ahead. Tomorrow would be Stanhope’s soiree.
First he must go back to his lodgings and change clothes. Hopefully no one would see him, but if they did he would explain he’d been attacked. Then a trip to the tailor’s to pick up the new doeskin trousers and waistcoat he had ordered for Stanhope’s affair. He had ordered the best. Perhaps he would attend a hell tonight, this time to win. He’d learned in the past few weeks which were the honest houses. A stroke of luck would not be noticed in light of his losses.
Dancing with a Rogue Page 9
