Stephanie Laurens
A
Secret
Love
CONTENTS
Prologue
Disaster stared her in the face. Again.
Chapter
1 Swirls of mist wreathed Gabriel Cynster’s shoulders as he prowled. . .
2 “Ala-the-aaa.Whoohoo! Allie! Can you pass the butter, please?”
3 At twenty minutes past midnight, Gabriel stood outside the oak door. . .
4 She’d never felt so breathless in her life.
One elbow propped. . .
5 Heathcote Montague’s office looked down on a small courtyard. . .
6 At noon the next day, Gabriel descended the steps of the Burlington Hotel. . .
7 “Good morning, Mr. Cynster.”
Gabriel halted and turned. . .
8 The countess was waiting, no longer behind the door but seated. . .
9 “Well, miss, and what’s got in to you?”Alathea snapped to attention.
10 That evening at Lady Castlereagh’s ball, Alathea found. . .
11 It was a moonless night. The wind soughed and sighed in the trees. . .
12 “Allie?”
Blinking, Alathea refocused.
13 A waltz was just starting. Alathea’s mad dash nearly sent her into the dancers.
14 Lady Clare’s ball was yet another unrelenting crush.
15 That question was answered two nights later. The Duchess of Richmond’s gala. . .
16 The next morning, Alathea sat in the gazebo tucked to one side. . .
17 The formal dinner preceding a come-out ball was, in social terms. . .
18 Their ball had been held on Monday night. Alathea did not set eyes on. . .
19 Sunday evening. Gabriel let himself into his house with his latchkey.
20 The coach carrying Alathea rocked and swayed as it rumbled along. . .
21 Chillingworth let Gabriel and Alathea down in Brook Street.
About the Author
Other book by Stephanie Laurens
Copyright
About the Publisher
April 17, 1820
Morwellan Park, Somerset
Disaster stared her in the face.
Again.
Seated at her desk in the library of Morwellan Park, Alathea Morwellan gazed at the letter she held, barely seeing the precise script of her family’s agent. The substance of the missive was burned into her brain. Its last paragraph read:
I fear, my dear, that my sentiments concur with yours. I can see no evidence that we have made any mistake.
No mistake. She’d suspected, virtually expected that that would be the case, yet . . .
Exhaling, Alathea laid the letter down. Her hand shook. A youthful cheer reached her, borne on the breeze wafting through the long windows. She hesitated, then stood and glided to the French windows standing open to the south lawn.
On the rolling expanse separating the terrace from the ornamental lake, her stepbrothers and stepsisters played an exuberant game of catch. Sunlight flashed on one fair head—Alathea’s eldest stepbrother, Charlie, leaped high and snatched the ball from the air, denying Jeremy, only ten but always game. Despite his emerging elegance, Charlie, nineteen, was good-naturedly caught up in the game, indulging his juniors, Jeremy and Augusta, just six. Their older sisters, Mary, eighteen, and Alice, seventeen, had also joined in.
The entire household was currently in the throes of preparing to remove to London so Mary and Alice could be introduced to the ton. Nevertheless, both girls threw themselves into the game, ringlets framing innocently happy faces, the serious business of their come-outs in no way dampening their joy in simple pleasures.
A whoop from Charlie signaled a wild throw—the ball flew over all three girls and bounced toward the house. It struck the flags of the path and bounced even higher, clearing the shallow steps to land on the terrace. Two more diminishing bounces, and it tumbled over the library threshold and rolled along the polished boards. Raising her skirt, Alathea placed one foot on the ball, stilling it. She considered it, then looked out to see Mary and Alice racing, laughing and gasping, toward the terrace. Stooping, Alathea scooped up the ball; balancing it on one palm, she strolled out onto the terrace.
Mary and Alice skidded to a halt before the steps, laughing and grinning.
“Me, Allie, me!”
“No! Al-a-the-a! Sweet Allie—me!”
Alathea waited as if weighing her choice while little Augusta, left far in the rear, panted up. She stopped some yards behind the older girls and raised her angel’s face to Alathea.
With a grin, Alathea lobbed the ball over the older girls’ heads. Open-mouthed, they watched it soar past. With a gurgling laugh, Augusta pounced, grabbed the ball, and raced away down the slope.
Flashing Alathea conspiratorial grins, Mary called after Augusta, Alice cheered, and both set out in pursuit.
Alathea remained on the terrace, the warmth suffusing her owing nothing to the bright sunshine. A movement beneath a large oak caught her eye. Her stepmother, Serena, and her father, the earl, waved from the bench where they sat indulgently watching their children.
Smiling, Alathea returned the wave. Looking back at her stepsiblings, now headed in a wild melee toward the lake, she drew in a long breath, then, lips firming, turned back into the library.
Crossing to the desk, she let her gaze dwell on the tapestries gracing the walls, the paintings in their gilded frames, the leather-bound, gilt-encrusted spines lining the shelves. The long library was one of the features of Morwellan Park, principal seat of the earls of Meredith. Morwellans had occupied the Park for centuries, from long before the earldom’s creation in the fourteenth. The present gracious house had been built by her great-grandfather, the grounds expertly landscaped under her grandfather’s exacting eye.
Regaining the large carved desk, hers for the last eleven years, Alathea looked at the letter lying on the blotter. Any chance that she would crumple in the face of such adversity as the letter portended was past. Nothing—no one—was going to steal the simple peace she’d sacrificed the last eleven years of her life to secure for her family.
Gazing at Wiggs’s letter, she considered the enormity of what she faced, too practical not to recognize the difficulties and dangers. But it wasn’t the first time she’d stood on the lip of the abyss and stared ruin—financial and social—in the face.
Picking up the letter, she sat and reread it. It had arrived in reply to an urgent missive from her dispatched post haste to London three days before. Three days before, when her world had, for the second time in her life, been rocked to its foundations.
While dusting her father’s room, a maid had discovered a legal document stuffed inside a large vase. Luckily, the girl had had the wit to take the paper to the housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Figgs, who had immediately bustled into the library to lay it before her.
Satisfied she’d missed nothing in Wiggs’s reply, Alathea set his letter aside. Her glance strayed to the left desk drawer where the wretched document at the heart of the matter lay. A promissory note. She didn’t need to read it again—every last detail was etched in her brain. The note committed the earl of Meredith to pay upon call a sum that exceeded the present total worth of the earldom. In return, the earl would receive a handsome percentage of the profits realized by the Central East Africa Gold Company.
There was, of course, no guarantee such profits would ever materialize, and neither she, nor Wiggs, nor any of his peers, had so much as heard of the Central East Africa Gold Company.
If any good would have come of burning the note, she would happily have built a bonfire on the Aubusson rug, but it was only a copy. Her dear, vague, hopelessly impractical father had, entirely without understan
ding what he was about, signed away his family’s future. Wiggs had confirmed that the note was legally sound and executable, so if the call was made for the amount stipulated, the family would be bankrupt. They would lose not only the minor properties and Morwellan House in London, all still mortgaged to the hilt, but also Morwellan Park, and everything that went with it.
If she wished to ensure that Morwellans remained at Morwellan Park, that Charlie and his sons had their ancestral home intact to inherit, that her stepsisters had their come-outs and the chance to make the marriages they deserved, she was going to have to find some way out of this.
Just as she had before.
Absentmindedly tapping a pencil on the blotter, Alathea gazed unseeing at the portrait of her great-grandfather, facing her down the long length of the room.
This wasn’t the first time her father had brought the earldom to the brink of ruin; she’d faced the prospect of abject poverty before. For a gentlewoman reared within the elite circle of the haut ton, the prospect had been—and still was—frightening, all the more so for being somewhat beyond her ken. Abject poverty she had no more than a hazy notion of—she had no wish for either herself or, more importantly, her innocent siblings, to gain any closer acquaintance with the state.
At least, this time, she was more mature, more knowlegeable—better able to deal with the threat. The first time . . .
Her thoughts flowed back to that afternoon eleven years before when, as she was poised to make her come-out, fate had forced her to stop, draw breath, and change direction. From that day, she’d carried the burden of managing the family’s finances, working tirelessly to rebuild the family’s fortunes, all the while maintaining an outward show of affluence. She’d insisted the boys go to Eton, and then to Oxford; Charlie would go up for the autumn term in September. She’d scrimped and saved to take Mary and Alice to town for their come-outs, and to have sufficient funds to puff them off in style.
The household was eagerly anticipating removing to London in just a few days. For herself, she’d anticipated savoring a subtle victory over fate when her stepsisters made their curtsies to the ton.
For long moments, Alathea stared down the room, considering, assessing—rejecting. This time, frugality would not serve her cause—no amount of scrimping could amass the amount needed to meet the obligation stipulated in the note. Turning, she pulled open the left drawer. Retrieving the note, she perused it again, carefully evaluating. Considering the very real possibility that the Central East Africa Gold Company was a fraud.
The company had that feel to it—no legitimate enterprise would have cozened her father, patently unversed in business dealings, into committing such a huge sum to a speculative venture, certainly not without some discreet assessment of whether he could meet the obligation. The more she considered, the more she was convinced that neither she nor Wiggs had made any mistake—the Central East Africa Gold Company was a swindle.
She was not at all inclined to meekly surrender all she’d fought for, all she’d spent the last eleven years securing—all her family’s future—to feather the nest of a pack of dastardly rogues.
There had to be a way out—it was up to her to find it.
May 6, 1820
London
Swirls of mist wreathed Gabriel Cynster’s shoulders as he prowled the porch of St. Georges’ Church, just off Hanover Square. The air was chill, the gloom within the porch smudged here and there by weak shafts of light thrown by the street lamps.
It was three o’clock; fashionable London lay sleeping. The coaches ferrying late-night revelers home had ceased to rumble—an intense but watchful quiet had settled over the town.
Reaching the end of the porch, Gabriel swung around. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the stone tunnel formed by the front of the church and the tall columns supporting its facade. The mist eddied and swirled, obscuring his view. He’d stood in the same place a week before, watching Demon, one of his cousins, drive off with his new wife. He’d felt a sudden chill—a premonition, a presentiment; perhaps it had been of this.
Three o’clock in the porch of St. Georges—that was what the note had said. He’d been half inclined to set it aside, a poor joke assuredly, but something in the words had tweaked an impulse more powerful than curiosity. The note had been penned in desperation, although, despite close analysis, he couldn’t see why he was so sure of that. The mysterious countess, whoever she was, had written simply and directly requesting this meeting so she could explain her need for his aid.
So he was here—where was she?
On the thought, the city’s bells tolled, the reverberations stirring the heavy blanket of the night. Not all the belltowers tolled the night watches; enough did to set up a strange cadence, a pattern of sound repeated in different registers. The muted notes faded, then died. Silence, again, descended.
Gabriel stirred. Impatient, he started back along the porch, his stride slow, easy.
And she appeared, stepping from the deep shadows about the church door. Mist clung to her skirts as she turned, slowly, regally, to face him. She was cloaked and veiled, as impenetrable, secret, and mysterious as the night.
Gabriel narrowed his eyes. Had she been there all along? Had he walked past her without seeing or sensing her presence? His stride unfaltering, he continued toward her. She lifted her head as he neared, but only slightly.
She was very tall. Halting with only a foot between them, Gabriel discovered he couldn’t see over her head, which was amazing. He stood well over six feet tall; the countess had to be six feet tall herself. Despite the heavy cloak, one glance had been enough to assure him all her six feet were in perfect proportion.
“Good morning, Mr. Cynster. Thank you for coming.”
He inclined his head, jettisoning any wild thought that this was some witless prank—a youth dressed as a woman. The few steps she’d taken, the way she’d turned—to his experienced senses, her movements defined her as female. And her tone was soft and low, the very essence of woman.
A mature woman—she was definitely not young.
“Your note said you needed my help.”
“I do.” After a moment, she added, “My family does.”
“Your family?” In the gloom, her veil was impenetrable; he couldn’t see even a hint of her chin or her lips.
“My stepfamily, I should say.”
Her perfume reached him, exotic, alluring. “Perhaps we’d better define just what your problem is, and why you think I can help.”
“You can help. I would never have asked to meet you—would never reveal what I’m about to tell you—if I didn’t know you could help.” She paused, then drew breath. “My problem concerns a promissory note signed by my late husband.”
“Late husband?”
She inclined her head. “I’m a widow.”
“How long ago did your husband die?”
“Over a year ago.”
“So his estate has been probated.”
“Yes. The title and entailed estate are now with my stepson, Charles.”
“Stepson?”
“I was my husband’s second wife. We were married some years ago—for him, it was a very late second marriage. He was ill for some time before his death. All his children were by his first wife.”
He hesitated, then asked, “Am I to understand that you’ve taken your late husband’s children under your wing?”
“Yes. I consider their welfare my responsibility. It’s because of that—them—that I’m seeking your aid.”
Gabriel studied her veiled countenance, knowing she was watching his. “You mentioned a promissory note.”
“I should explain that my husband had a weakness for engaging in speculative ventures. Over his last years, the family’s agent and I endeavored to keep his investments in such schemes to a minimum, in which endeavors we were largely successful. However, three weeks ago, a maid stumbled on a legal paper, tucked away and clearly forgotten. It was a promissory note.”
“To whic
h company?”
“The Central East Africa Gold Company. Have you heard of it?”
He shook his head. “Not a whisper.”
“Neither has our agent, nor any of his colleagues.”
“The company’s address should be on the note.”
“It’s not—just the name of the firm of solicitors who drew up the document.”
Gabriel juggled the pieces of the jigsaw she was handing him, aware each piece had been carefully vetted first. “This note—do you have it?”
From beneath her cloak, she drew out a rolled parchment.
Taking it, Gabriel inwardly raised his brows—she’d certainly come prepared. Despite straining his eyes, he’d caught not a glimpse of the gown beneath her voluminous cloak. Her hands, too, were covered, encased in leather gloves long enough to reach the cuffs of her sleeves. Unrolling the parchment, he turned so the light from the street lamps fell on the single page.
The promissor’s signature—the first thing he looked at—was covered by a piece of thick paper fixed in place with sealing wax. He looked at the countess.
Calmly, she stated, “You don’t need to know the family’s name.”
“Why not?”
“That will become evident when you read the note.”
Squinting in the poor light, he did so. “This appears to be legal.” He read it again, then looked up. “The investment is certainly large and, given it is speculative, therefore constitutes a very great risk. If the company had not been fully investigated and appropriately vouched for, then the investment was certainly unwise. I do not, however, see your problem.”
“The problem lies in the fact that the amount promised is considerably more than the present total worth of the earldom.”
Gabriel looked again at the amount written on the note and swiftly recalculated, but he hadn’t misread. “If this sum will clean out the earldom’s coffers, then . . .”
“Precisely,” the countess said with the decisiveness that seemed characteristic. “I mentioned that my husband was fond of speculating. The family has for more than a decade existed on the very brink of financial ruin, from before I married into it. After our marriage, I discovered the truth. After that, I oversaw all financial matters. Between us, my husband’s agent and I were able to hold things together and keep the family’s head above water.”
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