He knew she’d spilled the champagne deliberately.
Chapter Nine
She had spilled the champagne deliberately. If there was one thing she was not, it was clumsy.
The question was why.
Gabriel mused over that as he reached Stanhope, explained that he had clumsily spilled wine on Miss Freemont and she needed assistance.
Stanhope looked down at his daughter, a slight sneer on his lips. “My daughter can help her. She’s very domestic.” He looked down at Pamela. “You will be happy to do so, won’t you, my dear?”
Pamela Kane’s eyes brightened but Gabriel didn’t know whether it was because she really wanted to be of help or to get away from her father. She looked terrified of him.
He bowed slightly. “I would be grateful. I wish to redeem myself in her eyes. I was unforgivably bird-witted.”
“She is beautiful,” Lady Pamela said wistfully.
He wanted to say she too was quite an attractive young lady and, in truth, had much of the same facial structure as Monique. Her hair was lighter, and her eyes blue rather than gray, but …
He dismissed the notion as fanciful. Perhaps he looked for Monique in other women now.
Pamela did not meet his gaze as she stared at someone or something behind him. “I will fetch Annie. She’s my maid and ever so good about removing stains.”
He pasted an eager smile on his face, then he led the way to the place he’d left Monique.
She wasn’t there.
They looked in the dining room, then the other rooms, avoiding only the hallway where her father continued to greet newcomers. Music was now coming from the library.
“Perhaps the kitchen, my lord,” she suggested. “She might have thought someone there could help her.”
“Lead the way,” he said, though he knew very well where it was.
She went ahead of him, avoiding other guests. He realized she was happy to have an excuse not to be on display.
He didn’t want to like Stanhope’s daughter. Maybe it was her evident vulnerability and her obvious fear of her father that made him want to protect, just as he’d found himself drawn to young Elizabeth. Perhaps because he’d had no sister, no one but his mother and he hadn’t been able to do anything to help her.
But Stanhope was going to pay for what he had done to his father. Nothing had to get in the way of that. It wasn’t only for his father, but for all the others the man had swindled and betrayed and murdered.
He wanted to take everything from Stanhope. His money. His power. His reputation. His life.
Perhaps he would be doing young Lady Pamela a favor also.
He vowed that in doing one, he would ensure he was doing the second.
Monique was not in the kitchen. They went upstairs to the withdrawing room, where several men were in deep conversation. They instantly quieted when he approached, but he recognized one as the Earl of Daven, whom he’d seen at several gambling hells.
He knew from his own search of the home that the only rooms remaining were the master suite, two additional bedrooms—one of which supposedly was Pamela’s—and the study, which had been closed.
Where did she go? And why?
Then he saw her emerge from the master suite. Her eyes widened when she saw him.
Pamela moved toward her. “Father wanted me to help you.”
“Thank you,” Monique said, then looked wryly down at her dress. “I thought I should find something right away. I hope you do not mind my wandering about. I thought I might find a water pitcher.”
An excuse. Nothing more. She could have also found it in the kitchen, but Gabriel didn’t say anything, merely raised one brow to indicate his disbelief. He knew the moment he did that it was a mistake. The Marquess of Manchester would never have been so aware of someone else’s deceptions.
Was she a thief as well?
The idea interested him. Intrigued him.
Yet she was a successful actress. Would she risk everything for a bauble or two?
Maybe she had searched for a servant, and decided to try one of the bedrooms.
“I was afraid the material would stain. It is my favorite gown.”
He bowed slightly. “I can easily understand why. But you would be lovely in the simplest of garments.”
“You flatter me, my lord.”
“I speak only the truth. You are a woman of many facets.”
Sparks crackled between them. He was barely aware of Pamela, who stood next to him.
“I am but a simple actress.”
“I think you are anything but simple,” he replied.
“And the Marquess of Manchester?” she said in a low voice. “What is he?”
“The marquess is enchanted,” he replied, ignoring the nuance.
She gave him a disdainful look.
Pamela backed away, whether because of the words or the evident tension that had thickened between them, he did not know. He only knew he was alone with her and that he longed to reach out and touch that black curl.
Instead, he hardened his voice. “Has no one ever told you not to wander alone in strange houses?”
“But I’m not alone, am I, my lord? There is a houseful of guests.”
Her gray eyes were large and innocent looking. And yet her body was tense. She’s an actress.
But it was her business, not his, and he had his own plans. He knew he couldn’t become involved with any petty thievery she might undertake to enhance her salary.
He certainly was no saint himself. Yet he felt a sinking sensation in his gut. He was surprised at the depth of his disappointment. He’d felt it a few nights ago when she’d flirted with Stanhope, too.
He was a thief, too. He’d stolen Stanhope’s seal. Or borrowed it.
Just long enough to get it duplicated. Winsley had made his cast. The forged seal should be ready in the next few days.
Even now he felt the weight of the original in an inside pocket of his evening coat, which he wore over a very snug waistcoat. He’d meant to find a moment to replace it in Stanhope’s study and pray he’d not needed it.
He needed all his skills to do it, and here he was, staring like a damned fool at a woman who was probably as devious as himself.
“Would you like to go to the drawing room?” he asked. “Since you were at the Vauxhall Gardens, you must enjoy music.”
“I do. Very much.”
Her tongue moistened her lips, and he felt a burning, untamed need inside him. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted another woman, and God help him that was the last thing he needed.
He forced himself to turn around. “I will escort you back, since you seem to get lost.”
“Does my gown look presentable?” she asked, a husky note in her unsteady voice.
Did she feel the same heated pull?
“It is every bit as lovely as the woman who is wearing it,” he said.
She gave him a small smile. “You are a flatterer, my lord,” she said, that husky sound still evident. Her gray eyes were smoky, elusive, challenging.
He held out his arm, and she placed her own arm on it. Then she looked up at him. “You do not have to look after me, my lord.”
“Would you prefer the earl?”
She didn’t answer that, just lifted her chin and moved ahead.
He looked down on her dark hair, clasped by a silver comb. A gift from an admirer? The sweet smell of roses drifted enticingly upward. He wondered whether the dark curls were as soft and silky as they looked.
Then they were at the stairs. He looked down. Guests seemed unaware that two of their number had disappeared and oblivious to the waves of attraction radiating between them.
He forced his eyes straight ahead and away from the woman at his side. When they reached the bottom of the steps he turned toward the library and saw Stanhope there.
The earl’s dark eyes were like pieces of black onyx. The side of his mouth twitched, but Gabriel knew it wasn’t any kind of smile. A muscle jumped along
his tightened jaw. He was furious, but trying to hide it.
He stepped forward. “My daughter said all was well, Miss Fremont.”
“Yes.” She smiled at Stanhope. Gabriel cringed at the smile. It appeared spontaneous and real, but then he’d learned exactly how good an actress she was.
“May I borrow her for a while?” the earl asked, offering his arm. “I would like to introduce her to some friends. Perhaps my daughter can show you our gardens.”
Gabriel turned and saw Pamela. He hadn’t noticed her. It was almost as if she was hiding herself.
“It would be my pleasure,” he said, relinquishing Monique with the contradictory emotions of regret and relief.
He moved out of the way as the earl offered Monique his arm, and she looked up at Stanhope with admiration shining in her eyes, just as those same eyes had shone up at him just minutes ago.
Gabriel managed a smile and turned to Pamela. She really would be a pretty young lady if apprehension did not constantly cloud her face. She looked as if she expected to be struck.
“You really do not have to see the gardens,” she said shyly.
“But I would like to,” he replied as gently as he could without completely disregarding his role of fool.
She looked stricken but nonetheless obediently led him out the front and around to the back of the house.
He had been impressed with the garden the day he’d taken the seal. Now lanterns highlighted the well-tended beds of flowers.
“I am surprised that your father is such a fancier of gardens,” he said.
She stumbled, and he reached out to assist her. He wondered whether it was her nervousness. And he also wondered why her father had asked her to escort him. He didn’t think he looked like a flower lover.
“I—I—” she stuttered, and he realized she was terrified of him.
He looked down at her. “I do not bite, my lady.”
“Father … Father thinks …” She could not go on.
“He thinks what?”
Although it was too dark to see, he knew her face was probably red with embarrassment. If he hadn’t hated Stanhope before this moment, he certainly would now. He wondered why Stanhope was throwing his daughter at him, despite the fact that the child was far too young for him and obviously had no interest in him at all.
“Do you usually live in London?” he asked, trying to make her feel at least a little more comfortable.
“Oh no, my lord. I live with my aunt in the country. My father sent for me this week. He usually …”
“He usually what …?”
“He usually doesn’t care what I do,” she said softly, then flinched again, as if that brief comment would bring blows.
But Stanhope had wanted her to come this week and had even suggested they walk together at night in the garden. Or was it just to keep Gabriel away from Monique Fremont? There was no question that Stanhope lusted after her.
Bloody hell, what man wouldn’t?
“Where does your aunt live?”
“A dower house in Leicestershire. She is widowed.”
“Do you see your father often?”
“No,” she replied.
He saw her shiver. “You should have brought a cloak,” he said. He took off his evening coat and put it over her shoulders.
“We should go back inside.” But she didn’t say it with any real conviction, and he suspected she was relieved to be outside the view of her sharp-eyed father.
But he did not want to go inside. He didn’t want or need that feeling of almost feverish excitement every time he saw Monique, particularly since he questioned her honesty and honor. Still, she always made him feel more alive than at any other time in his life.
“I suppose we should return,” she repeated after an awkward moment. He couldn’t comfort her. The Marquess of Manchester would not do that, and he couldn’t afford to make mistakes now, not even to ease her disquiet.
Still, he did not want to force her to return to an untenable situation, either. She was so fragile.
He looked at her again and had that same odd feeling of familiarity. She certainly didn’t have Monique’s vibrant and confident presence, but there was a delicacy about their facial bones and a similarity of build. He had even seen her lift her chin, just as he had seen Monique do.
Nonsense, he told himself.
“But you would rather stay out here?” he finally asked, trying to rid himself of softness. It was impossible.
“I don’t like those people,” she blurted out.
Neither did he. Most of them had looked at him and Monique with undisguised contempt. Of course, that was what he’d planned, but it didn’t make him like them any better.
“What do you like?” He shouldn’t be asking these questions. He knew that. But she was obviously lonely. Lost. Even frightened. And he found he couldn’t walk away from her. Even if she was Stanhope’s daughter.
Or perhaps because she was.
“Home. My aunt.” She started to say something but stopped before he knew what it was.
“A young man?”
Terror replaced fright on her face.
“Why don’t we make a bargain, you and I?” he said.
“What kind of bargain?” The question was suspicious.
“Your father obviously wants to make a match between us. I can … call on you and perhaps it would benefit both of us. I will make no demands on you.”
“Why would you do that? I saw the way you looked at Miss Fremont.”
“I am trying to establish myself in London. I am looked upon as an outsider, most likely because I am. If I am calling on the daughter of a respected noble …”
“And Miss Fremont?”
“I think her interest lies elsewhere.”
“My father?”
She was obviously not as naive as he thought. “I think so,” he said wryly.
She looked at him for a long time, judging his face, weighing his words. Then she nodded. “It’s what my father wants. I do not know why. He has never … indicated any interest in me before.” She paused. “He must want something from you.”
He shrugged carelessly. “Is it a bargain?”
“How do I know I can trust you? You are an acquaintance of my father’s.”
“Because as enchanting as you are, my dear, you’re too young for me.”
Her eyes didn’t leave his eyes. “What do you want from him?”
“An investment. A business arrangement. Nothing that will hurt you,” he said. At least, he hoped to hell not.
“You will not want anything from me?”
“Only the pleasure of your company.”
“My father says I am dull and unappealing.”
Another reason to ruin Stanhope.
“I think he is very wrong.”
“You are different,” she said.
“Different?”
“Different from what I thought when I first met you. You seemed …” She stopped in midsentence.
“I am learning my way in London,” he said. “I am American and don’t always understand your customs. Perhaps you can help me? You can tell me who everyone is and explain all these titles, and …”
“I do not know many people in London,” she said, still resisting.
She was reluctant, obviously not quite ready to trust him. Yet what better way to get to her father? Especially if her heart was with some young man, which he suspected it was. He would not be toying with her. It would be a mutual arrangement, pure and simple. Still a niggling moment of conscience prodded him. While he would not be toying with her, nor was he being honest.
“You can call it off whenever you wish,” he said.
She finally nodded. “Then you will disappear? Jilt me?”
“Or you can jilt me,” he said. “Whatever would be easier for you.”
A little life came into her face.
“Do you swear?” she asked, the hope in her voice striking a chord in him. “A little time …”
/> “I swear. You can be my instructor on English manners and tradition. I will protect your heart.”
A smile lit her face, making her extraordinarily appealing. He hoped her young man was worthy of her.
“Let us go inside,” he said. “You are chilled.”
“I’ve been cold since I arrived here,” she said. “But it’s the chill in the heart, not the air.”
He took another look at her. Not the timid mouse. Someone much too wise for her years. Just as he had been.
He waited for her to lead the way to the steps, then the door. There he took his coat back and carefully buttoned it. They entered into a hall blazing with lights. The sound of Mozart drifted from the library.
Gabriel saw Stanhope and Monique together in a corner. Her dress showed no sign of the stain now, and she lifted her head and laughed. He hadn’t heard her laugh like that before. Like chimes of music.
And for Stanhope.
Gabriel led Pamela past them, pausing in front of Stanhope. “You have a truly delightful daughter,” he said. “I would like to see more of her.” He smiled at Monique.
The affair seemed to drag on interminably after that.
Stanhope had said he wanted to speak to him privately, and Gabriel wanted to know the earl’s intentions. He also wanted to get inside the study. The seal in his pocket was growing heavier.
But it was not difficult to talk to Pamela. Once her fear faded, she was a charming companion, intelligent and well read. Some young man would be very lucky.
He saw Monique leave Stanhope’s side. “Please pardon me,” he said to Pamela, “I must speak to your father.”
Her eyes shadowed again.
“About business, Lady Pamela. Not about you.”
“Be careful,” she whispered.
How much did she know about him? he suddenly wondered. But though he would reluctantly use her, he wouldn’t ask her to betray her father. No matter how much he wanted Stanhope, he wasn’t going to make her live with that kind of guilt.
He knew what guilt was. Perhaps if he had not left his father’s study that day …
He stood and walked over to Stanhope, swaggering a little as he did so, like a man who’d had too much wine. “You said you wished a private conversation, my lord.”
A flicker of disgust crossed Stanhope’s eyes, then he inclined his head sightly in consent. “My study,” he said. “It is toward the rear.”
Dancing with a Rogue Page 12
