A Secret Love c-5

by Stephanie Laurens

  "Us" referred to the select band of "men of business" who handled the financial affairs and investments of the wealthiest families in England.

  "I think"-deserting the window, Gabriel started to pace-"given it is Crowley behind it and he's avoiding all knowledgeable investors, then we can reasonably conclude the scheme's a fraud. Furthermore, if the amounts involved are comparable to that on the promissory note I saw, this scheme's going to cause considerable financial distress if it runs its course."

  "Indeed." Montague leaned back. "But you know the law's view as well as I. The authorities won't step in until fraud is apparent-'

  "By which time it's always too late." Gabriel faced Montague. "I want to shut this scheme down, quickly and cleanly."

  "That's going to be difficult with promissory notes." Montague held his gaze. "I assume you don't want this note you saw executed."

  "No."

  Montague grimaced. "After last time, Crowley's not going to explain his plans to you."

  "Not that he explained them to me last time." Gabriel returned to the window. He and Ranald Crowley had a short but not sweet past history. One of Crowley's first ventures, floated in the City, had sounded very neat, looked very tempting. It had been poised to draw in a large number of the ton, until he had been asked for his opinion. He'd considered the proposal, asked a few pertinent but not obvious questions, to which there were no good answers, and the pigeons had taken flight. The incident had closed many doors for Crowley.

  "You're probably," Montague observed, "one of Crowley's least favorite people."

  "Which means I can't appear or show my hand in any way in this case. And nor can you."

  "The mere mention of the name Cynster will be enough to raise his hackles."

  "And his suspicions. If he's as cunning as his reputation paints him, he'll know all about me by now."

  "True, but we're going need details of the specific proposal made to investors to secure their promissory notes in order to prove fraud."

  "So we need a trustworthy sheep."

  Montague blinked. "A sheep?"

  Gabriel met his gaze. "Someone who can believably line up to be fleeced."

  "Serena!"

  Together with Serena, seated beside her, Alathea turned to see Lady Celia Cynster waving from her barouche drawn up beside the carriageway.

  Waving in reply, Serena spoke to their coachman. "Here, Jacobs-as close as you can."

  Spine poker straight, Jacobs angled their carriage onto the verge three carriages from Celia's. By the time Alathea, Mary, and Alice had stepped down to the grass, Celia and her girls were upon them.

  "Wonderful!" Celia watched her daughters, Heather, sixteen, and Eliza, fifteen, greet Mary and Alice. The air was instantly abuzz with chatter and innocent queries. The four girls had the years of their shared childhoods to bind them in much the same way as Alathea, Lucifer, and Gabriel. Celia gestured at her offspring. "They insist on coming for a drive, only to become bored after the first five minutes."

  "They have yet to learn that social chatter is the… comme ca va?-oil that makes the ton's wheels go around?"

  "Oil that greases the ton's wheels." Celia turned to the speaker, a strikingly beautiful older lady who had strolled up in her wake.

  Alathea curtsied deeply. "Your Grace."

  Serena, still seated in the carriage, bowed and echoed the words.

  Smiling, Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, put out a gloved hand to tip up Alathea's face. "You grow more attractive with the years, ma petite."

  Through her frequent visits to Quiverstone Manor, the Dowager was well known to the Morwellans. Alathea smiled and rose; the Dowager's brows rose, too. "Not so petite." Catching Alathea's eye, she lifted one brow even higher. "Which makes it even more of a mystery why you are not wed, hein?"

  The words were uttered softly; Alathea smiled and refused to be drawn. While she was used to such queries, the intelligence behind the Dowager's pale green eyes always left her with the uncomfortable feeling that here was one who suspected the truth.

  The carriage rocked as Serena rose, clearly intending to join them. Helena waved her back. "No, no. I will ascend and we can chat in comfort." She gestured at Celia and Alathea. "These two must stretch their legs in the service of propriety."

  Alathea and Celia looked in the direction of Helena's nod; the four girls, heads together, arms linked, were already strolling the lawn.

  Celia sighed resignedly. "At least we can stroll together and chat."

  Leaving Helena settling in beside Serena, Alathea and Celia followed the four girls, but with no intention of joining them. They only needed to keep the girls in sight, leaving them free to talk without reserve.

  Celia immediately availed herself of that freedom. "Have you spoken to Rupert since coming up to town?"

  "Yes." Alathea mentally scrambled to recall the meeting-the one with Rupert, not Gabriel. "We met briefly while the girls and I were out walking."

  "Well, then. You'll have seen. What am I to do with him?"

  Alathea swallowed the observation that no one had ever been able to "do" anything with Rupert Melrose Cynster.

  He was as malleable as granite and always on guard against manipulation. As for Gabriel… "I saw nothing unusual. What worries you so?"

  "Him! He!" Celia's fists clenched on the handle of her parasol. "He's even more infuriating than his father. At least, by his age, Martin had had the good sense to marry me. But will Rupert turn his mind to the same task?"

  "He's only thirty."

  "Which is more than old enough. Demon has married, and Richard, too-Richard's only a bare year older than Rupert." A minute later, Celia signed. "It's not so much the marrying as his frame of mind. He doesn't even look at ladies properly, at least not with a view to any legitimate connection. And even the other sort of connection-well, the reports are hardly encouraging."

  Alathea tried to keep her lips shut, but… "Encouraging?"

  Ahead, the four girls burst out laughing; glancing their way, Celia explained, "It is apparently common knowledge that Rupert is cold-even with his mistresses he remains distant and aloof."

  "He always was…" About to say "reserved," Alathea reconsidered. "Guarded." That was much closer to the mark. "He always keeps his feelings under very close control."

  "Control is one thing-true disinterest is another." Celia's concern shadowed her eyes. "If he can't catch fire even in that arena, what chance is there for any acceptable lady to set tinder to his wick?"

  Alathea fought to keep her lips straight. By any standard, their conversation was exceedingly improper, but she and Celia had a decade-long habit of discussing her sons-Alathea's childhood companions-with a frankness that would have made their subjects' ears burn. But Rupert cold? It wasn't an adjective she'd ever associated with him, not as Alathea Morwellan and even less as the countess. "Are you sure you're getting the true picture? Mightn't you be hearing solely from those ladies he hasn't been…"-she gestured-" 'interested in?'"

  "Would that that were so. But my information has frequently come from disgruntled ladies he has been 'interested in'. One and all, they've despaired of making any serious impression on him. If half the tales told are true, he barely remembers their names!"

  Alathea's brows rose. Rupert being vague over a name was a sure sign he was not paying attention, which meant he was not truly "interested" at all. "Perhaps," she said, steering the conversation away from her nemesis, "Alasdair will marry first."

  "Hah! Don't be fooled by all that easygoing charm. He's even worse than Rupert. Oh, not that he's cold-quite the opposite. But he's feckless, footloose, and overindulged. He's busy enjoying himself without any long-term ties-he's developed a deep-seated conviction he doesn't need any shackles on his freedom." Celia's humph was the definition of disapproving. "All I can do is pray some lady has what it takes to bring him to his knees." She looked up, checking the girls still strolling ahead. After a moment, she murmured, "But it's really Rupert who worries m
e. He's so detached. Uninvolved."

  Alathea frowned. Gabriel hadn't treated the countess as if he were detached or uninvolved. Far from it, but she could hardly reassure Celia with that news. It seemed odd that the portrait Celia was painting was so different from the man she knew, let alone the man she was discovering, the man who had held her in his arms last night.

  Celia sighed. "Put it down to a mother's concern for her firstborn if you will, but I can't see how any lady is going to break through Rupert's defenses."

  It was possible if one had known him for years and knew where the chinks were. Nevertheless, Alathea inwardly admitted that she could easily see him steadfastly refusing to let any lady close, not in the emotional sense. He didn't like close-he didn't like emotional. He and she had been emotionally close all their lives, and look how he reacted to that. If Celia was correct, she was the only female he had ever allowed within his guard…

  Everything within her stilled. Had his experience with her, of her, hardened him against all women?

  Then she remembered the countess. With the countess, he was intent, attentive, certainly not distant and cold. Perhaps distant and cold came later? After…?

  Inwardly frowning, she shook aside her thoughts. Looking ahead, she saw the four girls nearing a group of budding dandies. "Perhaps we'd better catch up."

  Celia looked; her gaze sharpened. "Indeed."

  Where in London was he to find a suitable sheep?

  Leaving Lucifer and the friends with whom they'd lunched in the smoking room of White's, Gabriel scanned the occupants of the rooms through which he passed. None fitted his bill. It had to be someone with no obvious connection to the Cynsters, yet someone he could trust. Someone sharp enough to play a part but appear vacuous. Someone willing to take orders from him. Someone reliable.

  Someone with money to invest and some hope of appearing gullible.

  While he had contacts aplenty who would qualify on most counts, that last criterion excused them all. Where was he supposed to find such a someone?

  Pausing on the steps of White's, he considered, then strolled down and headed for Bond Street.

  It was the height of the Season and the sun was shining-as he'd expected, all the ton and their relatives were strolling the fashionable street. The crowd was considerable, the traffic snarled. He ambled, scanning the faces, noting those he knew, assessing, rejecting, considering alternatives-trying to ignore the female half of the population. He needed a sheep, not a tall lady.

  Even if he saw the countess, he doubted he'd know her. Other than her height and her perfume, he knew so little of her. If he kissed her, he'd know, but he could hardly kiss every possible lady on the off-chance she was his houri. Besides, he'd already determined that the fastest way to get the countess precisely where he wanted her was to learn more about the company-and that necessitated finding a sheep.

  He was halfway along the street when, immediately ahead, four ladies stepped out of a milliner's shop and congregated on the pavement. In the instant he recognized the Morwellans, Alathea raised her head and looked directly at him. Serena, Mary, and Alice followed her gaze-their faces promptly lit with smiles.

  There was nothing for it but to do the pretty. Sliding into his fashionable persona, he shook Serena's hand, exchanged nods with Mary and Alice, and lastly, more stiffly, with Alathea. As all four ladies stepped free of the throng by the shop windows, closer to the curb so they could converse more easily, Alathea hung back, then took up a position a good yard away from him, so that they both had their backs to the congested carriageway with Serena, Mary, and Alice strung between, facing them.

  "We met your mother and your sisters only this morning," Serena informed him.

  "In the park," Mary added. "We strolled-it was such fun."

  "There were some silly gentlemen about," Alice said. "They had monstrous cravats-nothing like yours or Lucifer's."

  He responded easily, in truth without thought. Even though Serena, Mary, and Alice ranked high on his list of people to be kind to, with Alathea three feet away, his senses, as always, slewed to her.

  And prickled, and itched.

  Even though he'd barely glanced at her, he knew she was wearing a lavender walking dress and a chip bonnet that covered her haloed hair. Under the bonnet, he was certain, would lurk one of those scraps of lace he found so offensive. He couldn't comment, not even elliptically, not with Serena before him… on the other hand, if he caught Alathea's eye, she would know what he was thinking.

  With that in mind, he glanced her way.

  The carriage horse behind her reared, kicking over the traces-

  He grabbed Alathea and hauled her to him, swinging around, instinctively shielding her. A hoof whizzed past their heads. The horse screamed, dragged the carriage, then tried to kick again-the rising knee caught him in the back.

  He jerked, but stayed upright.

  Pandemonium ensued. Everybody yelled. Men ran from all over to help. Others called instructions. One lady had hysterics-another swooned. In seconds, they were surrounded by a noisy crowd; the driver of the green horse was the center of attention.

  Gabriel stood motionless on the curb, Alathea locked in his arms. His senses were reeling, his wits no less so. At the edge of his awareness, he heard Serena, Mary, and Alice shrilly scolding the driver-they were incensed but not hysterical. Everyone around them was watching the melee in the road, temporarily ignoring him and Alathea.

  He tried to catch his breath, and couldn't. A host of emotions poured through him, relief that she was unhurt not the least. He hadn't been gentle-he'd slammed her against him, then held tight; she was plastered to him from shoulder to knee. She'd gasped, then gasped again as his body had jolted with the horse's kick.

  Her gaze was fixed over his shoulder, but from her fractured breathing, he suspected she saw nothing. A light, flowery fragrance rose from her breasts, crushed to his chest; soft whorls of hair peeked from under her bonnet, mere inches from his face.

  He felt her catch her breath; a slight shiver went through her. She gathered herself-he could feel steel infuse the fine muscles in her back-then she turned her head and looked into his face.

  Their gazes met and held-hazel drowning in hazel. Hers were clouded, so many emotions chasing each other across her eyes that he couldn't identify any of them. Then, abruptly, the clouds cleared and one emotion shone through.

  He recognized it instantly, even though it had been years since last he'd seen it. Concern poured from her eyes and warmed him-he'd forgotten how it always had.

  "Are you all right?" Her hands, trapped between them, fisted in his coat. 'The horse kicked you."

  When he didn't immediately reply she tried to shake him. Her body shifted against his. He caught his breath. "Yes, I'm all right." But he wasn't. "Only the knee connected-not the hoof."

  She stilled in his arms, open concern for him filling her face. "It must hurt."

  All of him hurt-he was so aroused he was in agony.

  He knew the instant she realized. Flush against him, she couldn't help but know. Her gaze flickered, then her lashes lowered-her gaze fell to his lips, then to his cravat. An instant later, she sucked in a small breath and wriggled-just a little. It was a long ago sign between them; she wasn't attempting to break free-she knew she couldn't-she was asking to be let go.

  Forcing his arms to unlock, then setting her back from him was the hardest physical labor he'd ever performed. She immediately fussed with her skirts and didn't look at him.

  He felt flustered, awkward, embarrassed… he swung on his heel to view the disaster in the road, praying she hadn't noticed the color in his cheeks.

  Alathea knew the instant his gaze left her. She couldn't breathe; her wits were reeling so crazily she felt disorientated as well as dizzy. Straightening, she pretended to watch as the fracas was resolved, grateful when it required Gabriel's intervention. Rigid, she waited on the pavement, stiffly inclining her head when the gentleman who'd been in charge of the young horse a
pproached with profuse apologies.

  In her mind, she repeated a single refrain: Gabriel hadn't realized.

  Not yet.

  The question of whether he would suddenly see the light kept her stiff as a poker.

  Then Serena bustled up, all matronly concern, both for her and her protector.

  "Are you sure you're all right?" Uninhibited by age or elegance, Serena grabbed Gabriel's arm and made him swing around.

  Alathea allowed herself a fleeting glance at his face as Serena brushed off his coat.

  He frowned and all but squirmed. "No harm done." Freeing himself from Serena's grasp, he gathered Mary and Alice with a glance. "It would be wise to retreat." He hesitated, then asked Serena, "Is your carriage close?"

  "Jacobs is waiting just around the corner." Serena waved back along the street.

  For the first time since he'd let her go, Gabriel looked directly at her; Alathea immediately waved Mary and Alice before her, then turned in the direction of the carriage. The last thing she needed was to stroll on his arm.

  He offered his arm to Serena; she was very ready to lean on his strength. She filled the distance back to the carriage with sincere and copious thanks for his prompt and efficient action. Safely separated from him by Mary and Alice, Alathea murmured her agreement, allowing her stepmother's praise to stand in place of her own.

  She was grateful-she knew she should thank him. But she wasn't game to get too close to him, not when she'd so recently been in his arms. She had no idea what might trigger a fateful convergence of memories; holding her head high, she walked to the carriage, apprehension crawling along her spine.

  By lengthening her stride, she reached the carriage first and climbed in without waiting for his assistance. He shot her a hard glance, then handed the others up. He stepped back and saluted; Jacobs flicked his reins.