Dancing with a Rogue

by Potter, Patricia;

  He leaned over and kissed her softly. “Why did you not tell me?”

  “I did not think this would happen.”

  “Did you not?” he asked wryly.

  Perhaps deep inside, she secretly acknowledged. He had intrigued her from the moment she had spied him on the ship. She had been drawn to him in ways she’d never expected. And tonight she’d received some answers that had been plaguing her.

  He was no fool. He was no libertine. He was no user. He had thought she was what she had wanted everyone to think: a courtesan as well as an actress. When he’d discovered she was a virgin, he’d been prepared to stop despite the heat that had drawn them together.

  “Do you want to tell me why?” he asked in a lazy, sensuous voice.

  She did not have to ask what he meant.

  “No,” she said.

  “You are not French, are you?”

  She moved her head to look into those green eyes that seemed to look straight through her soul. “Why …?”

  “You are too at ease with the language, even for an actress,” he said. “You grew up with English.”

  “I grew up in France,” she corrected him.

  “But of English parents?”

  “I had an English mother,” she admitted even as she wondered why she was giving him that information. But she seemed as powerless now as she had been an hour ago when she brought him to her bed.

  “Tell me about your mother.”

  She thought it a curious question, but then she realized that it was an opening into her life, into her mind.

  “There is nothing to tell,” she said. “She died several years ago.”

  “And your father?”

  She stiffened. “My mother had many lovers.”

  “Is that how you play the …”

  “Whore so well?” she finished for him.

  “Never that,” he said, his hand tightening around hers.

  “I am an actress,” she said, again avoiding a direct answer.

  “But to what end?”

  “I might ask the same,” she said.

  “I am but a poor American trying to make my way in the wilds of English aristocracy,” he replied with amusement.

  “You want something from Stanhope.”

  “I want a successful business arrangement. I need funds to rebuild an indebted estate.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “It’s in dismal condition.”

  “But you care deeply about it?”

  “It’s my heritage.”

  “Why do I not believe you?”

  “I have no idea, Miss Fremont,” he said. “Perhaps because we are both accomplished liars.”

  “Then you admit …”

  “Admit what?”

  “That you are a fraud.”

  “On the contrary. I am indeed the Marquess of Manchester, impoverished long-lost heir.”

  “I have heard tales of a scandal.”

  “Have you, now?”

  “Your father …”

  “My father was accused of selling shoddy goods to the army,” he said. “He was disowned by my grandfather. Quite fortunately, though, the estate was entailed, and he could not keep me from getting it. He did bankrupt it, though, possibly to make it useless to the heir of the son who disgraced him. There is little but debt and land that produces little in income.”

  “And you need income.”

  “Any way I can get it,” he said. “Stanhope made me an offer that can triple my funds. Quickly.”

  “And you trust him?”

  “Do you?”

  She hesitated. Should she warn him? “I have heard he is not entirely honest in his dealings.”

  “And that is the kind of man you want as a protector? Or,” he said, “you have a different game in mind?”

  She wanted to tell him. Dear Mother in Heaven, she wanted to tell him. But he had made it clear that he intended to press his business with Stanhope, and she would be giving him a means to win Stanhope’s confidence.

  He wouldn’t use it.

  She knew that in her bones.

  Yet part of her could not give him that knowledge. Only one other person in the world knew. And that was Dani.

  She didn’t know this man. She only knew that she was terribly susceptible to him, and that he clouded her mind and judgment. She needed to think before telling him any more.

  Her hand touched the small blond tendrils on his chest, then went to his neck. She snuggled into his arms and her lips found his as their bodies came together again.

  This time she knew what to expect. She was sore, but the craving inside her was even more compelling. He entered slowly, carefully, at first, then thrust deeper with the same urgency she felt.

  She’d thought she knew what to expect, but …

  This time they whirled together in a feverish dance toward a destination she now wanted above all, only to find it more spectacular, more magnificent than before. Bursts of wonder and thunderous waves of pleasure swept through her like a great tidal wave until she could bear no more. Exquisite quivers filled her as together they drifted back to earth.

  And she rested in his arms. Contented now.

  She closed her eyes.

  No more questions tonight. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow she could force answers. And perhaps … she could offer some.

  Perhaps.

  Stanhope prepared for the weekend at his estate with the same meticulous attention he paid to everything.

  He had paid Lynch enough to secure his releasing Monique that weekend. He had not yet received her reply, but she would come. He knew it. She wanted what he could offer.

  Manchester had already accepted.

  Both Stammel and Daven would be there, as would twenty other gentlemen of the ton, along with eight of their wives. He’d had regrets from others, but he would overlook the slights. For the moment.

  He planned a hunt and entertainments, including dancing. He would dazzle Monique with the estate and its fine gardens, with his guests, with his wealth. And he would claim the bet. He intended to take her to bed. He also planned to spring the trap on the new marquess who irritated him for no particular reason. He would make it clear that he needed a substantial deposit on the shipping contract.

  And after he had the man’s signature and funds, he would see that Manchester disappeared. Stanhope didn’t see the marquess as a threat. But he did not like loose ends, and Manchester was exactly that. He could rewrite events long since forgotten.

  And something about the marquess nagged at him. He did not care for that kind of nagging.

  Monique Fremont also was a puzzle. A much more attractive one to be sure, but a puzzle all the same. There was something familiar about her, and he kept thinking that he should know her.

  At the same time he was quite sure he would have remembered a woman with her charm and talent. He just wasn’t sure of her motives, though. She did not even pretend an attraction to him, even as she had coldly set out her terms for an arrangement. Why the three of them? Why three men known to be business partners?

  There were no rumors of other men, although Manchester, again, was an irritant. He seemed to be around her entirely too often.

  Yet he was paying court to Pamela, and his daughter, surprisingly, had few objections. That made him suspicious as well. Pamela had always been compliant, but he did not like the docility with which she approached the prospect of Manchester as a husband.

  And lastly, money was missing from his safe. The only people who had access to his home—other than servants—were his business partners. There had been the soiree, of course, but he had checked his safe the next morning and everything had been in place.

  Stammel? Daven?

  Would either dare?

  Only if one were desperate.

  For one of the few times in his life, he thought events might be spiraling out of control. He could remember only two other times. One was when sailors survived a ship that wa
s meant to sink. They lived to tell of shoddy construction and a cargo of stones rather than muskets.

  Fortunately, he seldom took chances. In case of just such an eventuality, he had forged one of his partners’ names to all the documents. Stanhope had been properly contrite, regretful that he had any part in such a despicable action.

  Manchester’s father received the blame, and conveniently killed himself before suspicion could be turned elsewhere.

  Stanhope had planned that the son follow the father’s footsteps.

  But now he was beginning to wonder whether the course was the wisest one. It might be best if the bloody man died on the road, victim of a bandit. And sooner rather than later.

  Monique rose lazily and reached out for him.

  Her body was sore, and yet she felt quite grand.

  She had reached out earlier, found him lying next to her, his eyes on her. She couldn’t see what was in them, but his hands were gentle as they touched her.

  He did not try to make love again, but she relished the feel of his body next to hers, and she drifted back into the sleep.

  Now she searched and he wasn’t in bed, nor in the room.

  She rose. The sun was high in the sky. She wondered how late it was. Where had he gone? She rang the bell.

  Dani was there almost immediately, a gleam in her eyes. Her lips were in a rare smile.

  “You look different,” she said.

  “Do I?”

  “Oui. So did my lord.” The smile spread.

  “Where is he?”

  “He said he had business. He left you a note.” Dani handed it to Monique. “He is a handsome man, non?”

  Monique knew she was reddening. Her face felt warm. Just as the rest of her. And yet she also felt deserted. No farewell. No parting kiss.

  She took the piece of parchment and read it.

  Monique—

  Thank you for a memorable evening. I regret I had to leave early, but I had unavoidable business and I did not want to wake you. If I can ever come to your assistance, please contact me.

  Gabriel

  She felt her face grow even warmer as the full impact of the message struck her. Curt. Indifferent. Please contact me, indeed. When it snowed in hell.

  “What is it?” Dani said, looking alarmed.

  Monique passed the note over to her, watched her face as she read it. “This does not sound like him,” Dani said. “He is not a cruel man.”

  “Well, we misjudged him,” Monique said. “I knew …” her voice trailed off, and she fought back rare tears. Of rage, she told herself.

  She had given herself to him because …

  Because he had appeared gentle and tender and … drat it, she had wanted him. She had never known that lust came to women as well as to men. Lust. That was all it had been. On both their parts. She had just justified her lapse as something else, something …

  She would know better in the future.

  She had almost, for a moment, forgotten why she had come to London.

  Monique turned to Dani. “It is time to accept Lord Stanhope’s invitation.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gabriel took his frustration out on Henry Worth, the Earl of Daven.

  He would have rather visited Stammel, but Dani’s intrusion might well have made the baron more careful.

  Daven did not gamble as recklessly as Stammel did, but he did have his weaknesses. One that probably drew both him and Stanhope together. They apparently were quite fond of establishments said to cater to rather bizarre interests of their patrons.

  Gabriel spent part of the day with the forger, making certain changes in documents he had taken from Stanhope’s safe along with the money. Contracts with various shippers. He had gone over each of them carefully.

  The contracts would be rewritten, amounts altered to make it appear that Stanhope had cheated his partners. He probably had, but Stanhope was a careful man.

  Gabriel would then replace them in the safe and hope that Stanhope wouldn’t look too closely. When an investigation opened, they would be found in Stanhope’s possession. Another rope around his neck.

  Part of his plan depended on a falling out between thieves. He wanted them all scampering for safety. He wanted them to know the despair that his father felt before he pulled the trigger of a pistol.

  Monique Fremont and her challenge to the three partners had assisted him in that. Perhaps not immediately, but he’d seen tempers shorten. It wasn’t Monique, he knew. To the three men, a woman was mostly something to be used and discarded. No, it wasn’t Monique. It was the challenge itself.

  Gabriel prayed that Monique knew exactly what she was doing.

  He was tempted to act like Don Quixote and tilt at windmills. How could you save someone who did not want to be saved?

  Instead, he tried to get her out of his mind by tending to his own business …

  That business was finding out more about Stanhope’s business dealings and enlarging his meager stake. He had far less than the sum Stanhope had required as his investment. Still, he thought Stanhope would accept a lower amount if necessary.

  The earl was a man who would take something rather than nothing, particularly if he wished to rid himself of what could become an embarrassment.

  Gabriel attended his tailor and ordered a riding coat for Stanhope’s country party. He stopped in at a fashionable restaurant and made an ass of himself by trying to join a party which obviously did not want his presence.

  Finally, he ended the evening at a gambling hell where he appeared to indulge in a great many glasses of brandy. He lurched home, not trying to avoid anyone who might be following him. He noticed, though, that rather than the bulky man, a young lad shadowed his progress.

  The lad was good. Careful. But Gabriel was aware now. Probably no one else would have noticed, particularly the careless heir everyone thought him to be.

  He returned to his lodgings. For once Smythe was not waiting for him. He had suggested that the man take a rare night off, perhaps to see old army friends. He’d also told Mrs. Smythe he would not need her this night.

  Gabriel quickly changed into serviceable black clothes that would be worn by a servant. He rubbed coal in his sandy hair and tucked it under a dark cap. In a pocket was a black silk scarf. Then he added a dark gray cloak.

  It had started misting, and he knew fortune was with him. He took an umbrella, left through the servants’ entrance, then hurried down an alley as if he were on an errand.

  He walked three blocks, then found an alcove in which to wait. No footsteps sounded nearby. He stepped out. Mist had turned into fog. This city was made, he thought, for intrigue.

  Gabriel walked to Daven’s residence. Most of the lights had been quenched.

  At the servants’ entrance in the back, he tried the door. It was unlocked. Apparently Daven did not hold to the same standards as did his business partner.

  He entered, keeping to the dark corners, listening for any footstep. He had more risky work to do here than at Stanhope’s. He had explored that residence when no one was inside. He had no idea how many lived here, but he knew there was at least one groom. There would also be a housekeeper, maid, and valet. That was the minimum of servants for a home like this.

  The hall was silent, as it should be in the pre-dawn hours. Servants were usually up and busy at dawn, lighting fires, preparing the morning meals. The valet might well be preparing Daven’s clothes for the next day.

  He quickly traversed through the lower level of the town house. It was not nearly as splendid as Stanhope’s. It was, in truth, fairly threadbare. Perhaps he had overestimated the number of servants.

  One reception room had little furniture.

  He found the study. He didn’t light the oil lamp but relied on dim light filtering in from the hall. The desk was piled high with papers and bills, totally unlike Stanhope’s. Gabriel glanced through them. Many of the bills were overdue.

  He smiled to himself. Daven might not be the gambler Stam
mel was, but he certainly must have other vices. It appeared he owed practically every merchant in London.

  The desk wasn’t locked. Inside were more bills. Then an envelope filled with banknotes.

  He wondered why so many banknotes when a mountain of bills remained unpaid.

  But then Gabriel’s tailor, who had demanded his fees in advance, had explained that some peers were notoriously lax in paying bills. The law protected them in matters of debt, and they could defraud creditors with impunity. The merchant’s only recourse was to decline to provide services or goods to that particular individual. Staring at the pile of bills, Gabriel wondered how Daven obtained any services at all.

  But at least Gabriel had found what he wanted. He pocketed the banknotes, then closed the desk. One thing about Daven’s desk: he would not know if someone had prowled through it. He would realize soon enough, however, that his banknotes were missing.

  Gabriel moved swiftly out the door, down the hall, and out the back. He moved around the side of the house and ducked when he saw a carriage pull up. Daven alighted.

  Breathing again, Gabriel waited until the door opened, then left the property.

  He hummed a sailor’s tune as he strolled down the street.

  Unfortunately, now that the danger was gone, his thoughts returned to Monique. He never would have tried to seduce her if he had known she was a virgin, God help him. He never would have gone up to her bedroom.

  The fact that she had been a virgin complicated things. He needed time to evaluate exactly what had happened.

  Why was she acting the courtesan when at twenty-five she’d never been bedded before? What he’d thought to be coquettishness was inexperience. But she had been as eager as he. She had not wanted him to stop. She had been as much the aggressor as he.

  Why? She had made it very plain she was after a fortune, that she did not object to pitting three men against each other for her favors.

  What if Stanhope won? The thought sent a sharp pain through him. Then why had she given herself to him last night? Perhaps she’d just wanted to use him to prepare for whoever won her game.

  He could not quite believe that.

  Bloody hell. She tied him up in knots.

  He knew he could not draw her into his own intrigue. It was too dangerous. He had intended a brief liaison with her, something that would mean little to either of them, and perhaps even put another thorn into Stanhope’s hide.