Dancing with a Rogue

by Potter, Patricia;

  The woman looked shocked for a moment, and Pamela realized young unmarried women did not go to the residences of gentlemen without an escort. Even when they did have urgent business.

  Pamela shivered, and the woman opened the door wide. “Come in, my lady. How far did you come?”

  Pamela shrugged. “A few miles. I really do not know.”

  “Well, bless you. You must be freezing. I will make you some hot tea. I am Mrs. Smythe, housekeeper to the marquess.”

  “Thank you.” Pamela followed her into a small sitting room and sat with relief on an upright chair. The lodgings were not what she expected. They were not nearly as grand as her father’s residence. Indeed, they were rather spare. But a fire blazed in the fireplace and she found a chair near its heat.

  When Mrs. Smythe disappeared, she dropped her head into her hands. What had she done? If anyone discovered her here, she would be ruined. Her father would be in a rage.

  She still felt the pain from the blow yesterday. She recalled the rumors she had heard. Her father had caused her mother’s death. He had openly talked of killing Lord Manchester.

  Now that she had disappeared without permission, she would receive no mercy.

  She swallowed hard. What if Manchester had been playing with her? What if he took her back?

  What had she done?

  She sat in the chair, leaning toward the heat, praying it would warm her soul as well as her body. She had come to warn him, and in doing so she might have signed her own death warrant.

  Pamela realized at that moment she could not go back.

  Not ever.

  And Manchester? If he was not what she believed him to be? Where would she go? How would she survive?

  She stared blankly at the dancing flames. Bright. Cheerful.

  “My lady?”

  The woman’s voice startled her, and Pamela started to rise in a panic.

  “It’s all right, my lady. It is just me with a bit of hot tea to warm you,” the woman said and put down a tray laden with a teapot, cup, thick cream, several pastries.

  “Do you know when Lord Manchester will return?”

  “Nay,” the woman said. “He must have come in very late last night. I made him breakfast, and then he hurried out.”

  “I … I sent a note yesterday,” Pamela said.

  A look of horror came over her face, then she hurried out of the room and returned a moment later. “It is still on the silver tray. I forgot to tell him about it.”

  Pamela did not know whether she should be relieved or not. At least he had not ignored her. But what to do now?

  Did she dare return home and hope he might stop to visit her? Should she stay here until he returned?

  Her father probably knew she had left against his wishes. He’d made it clear last night that she was to stay in her room for her disobedience. Would he forbid her from seeing Manchester? Would he send her back to her aunt’s residence?

  Should she write something on paper or even tell this woman? Then what if her father learned of it?

  Tom with indecision and misery, she looked up at Mrs. Smythe, whose expression went from horror at her own failure to obvious concern for Manchester’s uninvited guest.

  “You are welcome to stay here until he returns,” the woman said kindly.

  “My father will …”

  “Lord Manchester will take care of it,” the woman said with the supreme confidence of one who believes totally in someone.

  “Can someone find Miss Fremont, the actress?” Pamela said, taking her last desperate chance. She was growing more uncertain and even panicked every passing moment.

  “I will ask Sydney,” she said. “He has been there. In the meantime you drink that tea,” she ordered.

  Pamela did as ordered as the woman swept out. The housekeeper obviously had the same kind of confidence in her employer as Pamela had at the beginning of this journey. But now that time had worn on, and her problems multiplied, her fear grew.

  Then his valet was standing in the room. He was as large as she remembered. But his eyes were kind.

  “My lady?”

  “I came to tell the marquess something. He must know. I have not been able to find him.” The words came tumbling out of her mouth now. Despite his size, the valet had the same comforting face and words as his mother.

  “Lady Pamela,” he acknowledged. “Does your father know where you are?”

  “No, and he must not.”

  Smythe looked at a clock in the corner. “Lord Manchester said he planned to call on you later.”

  “I cannot go home.”

  She tried to check the tears in her eyes. But leaving the house today took the bulk of her courage. She had been so sure—with no evidence whatsoever—that Manchester would magically solve everything.

  Then she stiffened. She was no simpering miss. Just days ago she had resolved to be strong. Just last night, she had defied her father.

  He studied her for a long time, as if he wanted to do something but was not quite sure exactly what.

  “Miss Fremont will know,” he said.

  She looked at the clock again and her blood chilled. “When does she go to the theater?”

  “I will see if we can get there before she leaves,” he said.

  She rose. The top of her head came to his shoulders. That gave her comfort. There was a steadiness in him.

  “I want to thank your mother.”

  “I will do that for you later. Your cloak?”

  She shook her head.

  He disappeared and returned with a worn cloak. “My mother’s. It is not what you are accustomed to, but …”

  “I am very grateful,” she said with what smile she could manage.

  He did not say anything. He opened the door for her, then followed her down the steps. In minutes he had hailed a hackney and helped her inside.

  “I do not have any funds,” she said, humiliated.

  “Lord Manchester would not want you to pay,” he said.

  The coach started. If only she was in time.

  Daven had news.

  Stanhope had barely entered White’s and sat at Daven’s table when his partner said, “It was the actress.”

  Stanhope struggled to control his anger. He had not wanted it to be her, he realized now. At some point in the blasted contest, he had started to actually care about her. The realization was galling.

  “How do you know?”

  “She told the manager of the theater. You are banned from attending the theater, and he has approached Sir Thomas Colley about opening an investigation into Stammel’s death.”

  Stanhope’s hands clenched the glass he was holding. “How serious is it?”

  “Colley is incorruptible. There is nothing we can do to stop him. I fear one investigation will lead to another.”

  “We have stopped them before.”

  “A baron has not been killed before.”

  “I had nothing to do with that.”

  Daven was silent.

  “You do not believe I had nothing to do with Stammel’s death?”

  “I am thinking about leaving London for a while. Now that we are no longer at war with France …” Daven said without answering the question.

  Stanhope stared at him. “This will go away.”

  Daven stood. “If I were you, Stanhope, I would leave, too.” He left the table.

  Stanhope sat there blindly. No one spoke to him.

  How could everything have gone so wrong?

  He had expected to have the betrothal this afternoon and Manchester’s thirty-five thousand pounds. That and the insurance money would have been a godsend. Now his daughter was missing, Manchester was proving to be more stubborn than he thought, and a bloody actress was accusing him of murder.

  His world was falling apart, and it was all her fault.

  Why?

  Now that he thought of it, she had targeted him ever since she came to London. He thought back to the times she had dangled herself in fron
t of him, only to back away. Of her strange friendship with Pamela, even Manchester.

  Manchester …

  Was he still at his home? Or with Monique Fremont? Or was there another reason?

  He jerked away from the table, knocking over a chair as he rose. Goddamn it, no one was going to make a fool of him.

  Manchester smoked his cigar and drank some of Stanhope’s brandy after the man left.

  He wondered where Pamela was. She hadn’t appeared to have many friends. Perhaps Stanhope had decided he was no longer useful as a possible son-in-law.

  He poured the rest of the bottle of brandy in a spittoon, then approached the door, which had been left open, and looked out. He probably had a few moments before the butler appeared again. He took the forged manifest from inside his waistcoat and wandered over to the desk. Again, he unlocked the drawer quickly and put the manifest at the bottom of a pile in the lower left hand drawer.

  He straightened just as he heard the butler again, but he did not have time to lock it.

  He moved to the door. “Just looking for you,” he said as the butler came through the door. “I am ready for another glass of brandy.” He peered at the man with his quizzing glass. “Is Lady Pamela about yet? Dashedly bad manners to keep me waiting.”

  The butler stalked over to the bottle on the table, discovered it was empty, and left again. Gabriel locked the drawer and sat, stretching out his long legs.

  Monica would be on her way to the theater. The Smythes should be packed and waiting for him. If only he could talk to Pamela.

  Timing was everything tonight.

  Everything.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The theater was full.

  Monique had learned long ago to turn her personal thoughts off once she stepped on the stage.

  It was more difficult today than it had ever been in her life.

  So many warring emotions.

  She thought she had made her decision. Yet doubts pummeled her.

  Monique had not questioned her instincts or decisions for a number of years, not since she found something at which she was very good, which earned her respect. Which gave her entrée to almost anywhere she wanted to go.

  She hadn’t wanted more than that, other than to see justice done. But now she realized there was something stronger, something far greater than the approval of an audience.

  Should she tell Gabriel everything? Perhaps he would want nothing to do with her then. But at least she would know.

  Hope battled despair even as she kept the banter light on stage and responded to the laughter. She wished she could see the audience. She did see Lynch in the curtains. He was beaming. A ripple of guilt ran through her. She did have an obligation to him.

  Did she have a greater one to herself?

  She uttered the last line, and the theater exploded into applause. She knew it had not been one of her better performances. Richard looked at her curiously.

  “I’m sorry,” she said as they exited the stage.

  “No need, love. You are better on your worst day than anyone else on the best day. It is a pleasure being on the stage with you.”

  The compliment warmed her. She liked him. He swaggered and considered himself a gift to all women, but he was also very professional on the stage and, unlike many actors, ready to compliment his fellows, whether they were in lead or supporting roles.

  “Thank you.”

  “No need. You make me look good.” He looked at her closely. “Would you have supper with me tonight?”

  “I am sorry. I cannot.”

  “Refused again. You will destroy my confidence, Monique.”

  “Impossible,” she said lightly, then paused, wondering whether she would see him again. “Good night.”

  He gave her a curious, searching look. As if he knew something—or perhaps Monique herself—had changed.

  She turned and went into her dressing room, where Dani waited. She was on edge too, moving around restlessly, which she rarely did.

  Monique felt the weight of other lives on her. She wanted Dani to go tonight. She must go. She might never find another man like Smythe, just as she, Monique, would never find another Manchester.

  Monique’s housekeeper answered the door when Pamela and Smythe arrived at her lodging.

  Mrs. Miller recognized Smythe, who then introduced Pamela.

  The housekeeper curtsied. “My lady,” she said.

  “I am looking for Miss Fremont,” Pamela said.

  “She has gone to the theater.”

  Pamela felt the earth move under her. She had depended on contacting Manchester, passing on her news and returning home—all hopefully before anyone knew she was gone. That, though, was impossible now. Her absence no doubt had been noted. Why had she not been patient and waited for Manchester at her home?

  She had been rash for one of the few times in her life. She should know it always ended in disaster.

  “Come, miss,” Smythe said sympathetically. “We will find my lord for you. I know he cares about you.”

  The housekeeper looked at them with curious eyes.

  Pamela wondered what both were thinking. Had Manchester and Miss Fremont confided in them? Did Manchester’s valet realize that they were playing a charade?

  “And if we do not?”

  “I will take you home,” Smythe said.

  She looked at him. “I cannot return there.”

  The housekeeper looked distressed. “You can leave a message, but she will not return for at least three hours.”

  “Thank you,” Pamela said politely. But even she heard the weakness, even fear, in her voice. Then, “perhaps I can stay here and wait for her.”

  Mrs. Miller looked at Smythe, then at Pamela. “I think that would be all right,” she said. “You can have some tea, and rest. You look weary and it would not do for you to go to Lord Manchester’s residence.”

  Pamela was tired. Exhausted, in truth. She had not slept since she had arrived in London and had not slept well before that, not since Lord Stammel’s death. And she doubted her father would look for her here. He could not have known that she had grown close to Miss Fremont.

  She looked at Smythe in question.

  He nodded. “I will continue to look for Lord Manchester, but I think he planned to come by here tonight in any event. He will look after you,” he added with a slight smile.

  Pamela turned to Mrs. Miller. “Thank you,” she said with heartfelt gratitude. She turned to Smythe. “And to you.”

  His face flushed slightly before he nodded, turned, and left the house.

  Pamela had not returned home.

  Stanhope had stopped at his residence, hoping she might be there. Perhaps she would know more about Manchester than he’d thought. A woman, even a plain mouse of one, could often exact more information than harsher methods.

  The longer Stanhope reviewed the past weeks, the more he centered on a conspiracy between Manchester and Monique Fremont. Nothing else made sense. They had appeared at the same time. Seen too often in one another’s company. They always had reasons, but reasons were easy to come by.

  He had been played for a fool. No doubt about it. The latest blow came when he arrived at his residence. One more note, this one saying there was some question about the purchase of muskets for Ireland.

  He’d read it with growing dread. But the threads were coming together in one giant tapestry.

  He now agreed with Daven. He had to leave London, and he had to do it immediately.

  He’d seen accusation in Daven’s eyes. If his partner was questioned, Stanhope had little faith in his ability to keep silent.

  But he needed funds to live well outside England. He had some banknotes, but much of his funds had been spent on refurbishing his ancestral home. Manchester, though, had cash. And Stanhope damned well intended to get it.

  In the meantime he planned a visit to Monique Fremont tonight. Barred from the theater? The very thought enraged him. Thomas Kane, the Earl of Stanhope
, banned from a common theater.

  He waited for his daughter to return home. When that did not happen, he sent out his footmen to make discreet queries about her and to watch the residences of both Manchester and Monique Fremont.

  As he waited, he drank brandy. His best. He looked around the comfortable room that he might soon have to forfeit. His ancestral home in the country. His roses.

  His anger intensified. It was a fire inside him. With each sip, his rage grew. He had befriended Manchester when no one else would. He had been patient with Monique Fremont. He’d helped fill the theater by recommending the play to his friends.

  Now they had turned on him. They had caused his friends to turn on him.

  They were trying to destroy him, and they would pay for that error of judgement.

  The brandy stirred his thoughts. How bad was the damage? If he killed Manchester and the actress, would the trail lead back to him? Or was Stammel’s death his noose?

  And why was Stammel dead?

  A debt to Manchester. Manchester’s accusation that he placed a burr under a saddle. Jewels found in his belongings. And where had Manchester been just prior to finding them?

  Manchester. Always Manchester.

  Had Manchester stolen the jewels and planted them in Stammel’s belongings? Had the American marquess been a far better hand at cards than he’d led Stammel—and himself—to believe? Blazes, had he killed his partner and friend for no reason?

  Manchester? But how could the man have gotten into his safe? And how would he know the combination? Though he had left the man in his office, Stanhope did not think he’d had access to the rest of his house.

  The soiree! Monique Fremont had spilled something on her dress. Manchester had disappeared then.

  Stanhope saw it all now. All the pieces fit into a very tidy package. He had been outwitted by a common actress and an American upstart. He had seen what he had wanted to see.

  He had money at his country estate. Enough to see him abroad.

  But first he would see to Manchester and Monique Fremont. Monique first. He would force her into sending a note to Manchester. Then a lover’s quarrel. Murder. Suicide.

  Gabriel waited in the shadows at the back of the theater. He had finally left Stanhope’s home, giving up on trying to see Pamela. He’d wanted to tell her she could accompany them to America or, if she wished, stay in London under the protection of Baron Tolvery.