“Torn flounce?”
Alathea blinked. “Yes. How did you know?”
“The twins try that all the time.”
“Try it?
“Try to use the excuse to slip away. Mind you, the flounce or ruffle or whatever usually is torn, but if one was to accept that the plethora of injuries their wardrobes sustain was due to the clumsiness of their partners, you’d expect the entire male half of the ton to be clod-footed.”
Alathea didn’t smile. “But why do the twins try to slip away?”
“Because they have fantasies of meeting with unsuitable gentlemen if only they could escape from our sight.”
Alathea checked; Lucifer’s expression was perfectly serious. He scanned the crowd, then glanced her way. “But you know what it’s like—I saw you keeping watch over young Alice.”
“I wasn’t keeping watch over her—she’d never ripped a flounce before and didn’t have pins, or know how to pin it up. I was simply helping her.”
“Maybe so, but you know the ropes—you were watching over her as well.”
Alathea had had a surfeit of male Cynsters that evening. Drawing in a breath, she held it for a moment, then turned to her companion. “Alasdair.”
That got his attention. He glanced her way, one brow rising.
“You and your equally misguided brother have got to put an end to this ridiculous obsession. The twins are eighteen. I’ve met them; I’ve conversed with them. They are sensible and level-headed young ladies, perfectly capable of managing their own lives, at least to the extent of interacting with suitable gentlemen and selecting their own consorts.”
Lucifer frowned. He opened his mouth—
“No! Be quiet and hear me out. I’ve had quite enough of arguing with Cynsters this evening, and you may tell your brother that, too!” She flashed him a darkling glance. “You must both understand that your constant surveillance is driving the twins demented. If you don’t give them the space to find their stride, they’ll kick over the traces, and then you’ll be left trying to make a poor fist out of some unholy mess. How would you feel if you were cabin’d, cribb’d and confin’d every time you set foot in a ballroom?”
“That’s different. We can take care of ourselves.” Lucifer searched her face, then he sighed. “I’d forgotten you haven’t spent much time in London.” His smile flashed, the essence of brotherly condescension. “There are all sorts of bounders drifting through the ton—we couldn’t possibly leave the twins unwatched. It would be like staking out two lambs and then walking away and letting the wolves have at them. That’s why we watch. And you needn’t worry about Mary and Alice—it’s as easy to watch four as it is to watch two.”
He was in earnest. Alathea considered a heartfelt groan. “Has it ever occurred to you that the twins just possibly might be able to take care of themselves?”
“In this arena?” Glancing at the subjects of their discussion, Lucifer shook his head. “How could they possibly? And you must admit, when it comes to sweeping ladies off their feet, we are the reigning experts.”
Alathea resisted rolling her eyes to the skies. She was determined to puncture, or at least dent, their Cynster egos. Scanning the ballroom, she searched for inspiration.
And saw Gerrard Debbington stroll up to Gabriel, who was chatting with an acquaintance. Gerrard nodded easily. Gabriel nodded back. Even from across the room, Alathea could sense the sudden focusing of his awareness.
“You see,” Lucifer said, shifting closer, “take the case of Lord Chantry, currently sniffing around Amelia’s skirts.”
“Chantry?” Alathea’s gaze was fixed across the room. The gentleman who’d been conversing with Gabriel departed, leaving him alone with Gerrard. Instantly, the tenor of the conversation changed. Gerrard shifted; she could no longer see his face.
“Hmm. He’s supposed to have a nice little estate in Dorset and is a thoroughly charming fellow, as far as the ladies can see.”
“Really?” Alathea could tell from the intensity of Gabriel’s expression that whatever Gerrard was saying was extremely important.
“However, there’s another side to Chantry.”
She had to get closer so she could overhear; they were obviously discussing something vital.
“He’s in dun territory. All but rolled up.”
About to move, Alathea focused nearer to hand—and found herself face to face with Lucifer. “What?”
“He’s under the hatches and looking for a quick wedding with a nice bit of brass tied to the bouquet.”
“Who?”
“Lord Chantry.” Lucifer frowned at her. “I’ve been telling you about him so you’ll understand why we watch over the twins. Haven’t you been listening?”
Alathea blinked. Pushing past Lucifer, hurrying across the crowded ballroom, and somehow getting close enough to Gabriel to overhear what was being said was impossible. Aside from anything else, Lucifer would be at her heels. “Umm . . . yes. Tell me more.”
She shifted so she could keep Gabriel in view.
Lucifer eased back. “So that’s Chantry. And of course Amelia’s been smiling sweetly at him for the last week. Silly puss. I tried to tell her but would she listen? Oh, no. Stuck her nose in the air and insisted Chantry was amusing.”
Alathea considered telling him Amelia was probably encouraging Chantry simply to tease him and Gabriel.
Gabriel looked up. As if summoned, Devil, the object of Gabriel’s glance, detached himself from Honoria’s circle and made his way to join the conference.
Something major was being planned.
“Another perfect example of a bounder is Hendricks—there—to Amanda’s right. He’s even worse than Chantry.”
Letting Lucifer’s monologue roll past her, Alathea watched the meeting taking place across the room. Vane strolled up as if just passing by; he, too, joined the discussion. Ideas—arrangements?—were batted back and forth; that much was clear from the shifting glances, the occasional gestures. At last, a decision was made. Whatever it was, it involved Gerrard Debbington. Gerrard and Gabriel. Devil and Vane appeared to be advisers, less involved in the details of whatever was planned.
She had to learn the plan.
“So, you see, that’s why we watch over them. Do you understand now?”
She refocused on Lucifer. What was the right answer? Yes? No? She sighed. “Never mind.” The twins would have to fight their own battles. Putting a hand on his arm, she eased him back. “There’s a waltz starting—come and dance. I need distraction.”
“I can’t—I’m on watch.”
“Gabriel’s free—signal to him. He can take over.”
Lucifer did, and Gabriel did, and she got her distraction.
Much good did it do her.
By the time she was in the carriage rolling home through the deserted streets, she’d accepted the fact that she would have to meet with her knight again. Cudgeling her brains, she tried to devise some way for the countess to meet him in safety. Somewhere that would inhibit him from claiming any further reward.
He’d had reward enough.
She couldn’t, in all conscience, allow him to claim anything more, not even if he’d learned further facts. He’d taken liberties enough as it was.
But how to prevent his taking more?
“Good morning, Mr. Cynster.”
Gabriel halted and turned; the countess was walking toward him.
Along the pavement of Brook Street in broad daylight.
She was, as usual, fully cloaked and veiled. Gabriel arched a brow. The hunter in him recognized her strategy, but if she thought to deny him all reward, she’d yield something else, instead.
No veil was impenetrable in daylight.
Then she stopped before him, her face high, and he saw the black mask she wore under the veil.
He wondered if she played chess.
“Good morning . . .” He let his greeting die away for want of a name or specific title; as he straightened from his bow, he amended, “
Madam.”
He sensed her smile, concealed beneath the mask, then she gestured in the direction he’d been heading. “May I walk with you?”
“By all means.” He offered his arm and she laid her gloved hand on his sleeve. As they strolled in the direction of Bond Street, he was intensely aware of her height. He could see over the heads of most ladies; it was consequently easy to largely ignore them even when they were on his arm. Ignoring the countess was impossible; she impinged on his awareness in so many ways.
It was just past midday and the ton was slowly stirring, gentlemen emerging from their doors as he had to seek refuge or congenial company in the clubs around St. James.
“I assume,” his companion said, her voice, as ever, soft and low, “that you’re proceeding with the matter of the Central East Africa Gold Company?”
“Indeed.” Swiftly considering, he continued, “In order to prove fraud, it’s imperative we have witnesses to and evidence of the precise details of the proposal the company representatives present to prospective investors. My man of business has made discreet inquiries, but none of the more wealthy, experienced investors, nor their men of business, have been approached by the company. That being so, we’ll need to send the company a potential investor.”
She looked down. They crossed South Molton Street before she asked, “Who do you have in mind for the role?”
“A young friend by the name of Gerrard Debbington. He has the presence to pass as over twenty-one, although in fact he’s a minor. That, of course, gives him a perfect and valid reason to not, after the company’s presentation, sign any promissory note himself.”
“His guardians would have to sign.”
“Quite. But he’s not going to mention them until the end of the interview.”
She looked up. “What interview?”
His expression impassive, Gabriel considered the bright glint that was all he could see of her eyes. He didn’t know their color, yet he suspected they wouldn’t be blue. Brown? Green? “Gerrard has spent the last few days ambling about in all the right places, making vague noises about finding something better to do with his brass than buy up more fields.”
“And?”
“Yesterday, Archie Douglas just happened to bump into him.”
“And?”
The repeated word held a note of impatience; Gabriel kept his lips straight. “Archie chatted about the Central East Africa Gold Company. When Gerrard showed the right sort of interest, a meeting with the company’s representatives was mooted.”
“When?”
“Archie had to confirm the details with his friends, but Gerrard, as per instructions, suggested tomorrow evening at the Burlington Hotel.”
“Do you think the company representatives, by which I assume you mean Crowley, will agree?”
“I’m quite sure they’ll agree. Archie wouldn’t have approached Gerrard if Crowley hadn’t already singled out his mark.”
“But . . .” Anxiety colored the word. “I believe Gerrard Debbington is a connection of yours. Of the Cynsters. Is that wise?”
Gabriel inwardly frowned. Who was she? “He is, but the connection isn’t obvious, at least not in this sense. Archie Douglas is not highly regarded by the ton’s hostesses; he won’t know of the connection. Crowley’s scrutiny will focus on Gerrard’s background, which shows he’s a wealthy young gentleman from the shires. If the company was in the habit of more prudently checking their marks, they wouldn’t have bothered with your late husband.”
“Hmm.”
His fair companion sounded less than convinced. “Put it this way, if Crowley had any inkling that Gerrard Debbington was in any way associated with me, Gerrard would never have been approached.” Her head lifted. She gave one of her distinctive nods. “Yes, that’s true. So . . . you think Gerrard Debbington can effectively pass himself off as a gullible investor?”
“I’m sure of it. I’ll drill him in what we need to know, and give him pointers—a primer, if you will—so he’ll know the most useful questions to ask, all couched in language appropriate for a young gentleman fancying himself the next Golden Ball.”
“Yes, but do you think he’ll be able to carry off the”—she waved—“characterization, as it were? If he’s only eighteen . . .”
“He does a very good job of appearing less intelligent than he is. He simply stares vaguely—vacuously—at whoever’s talking. He has an innocent-looking face with large eyes and one of those charmingly youthful smiles. He appears as open as a book at all times—that doesn’t necessarily mean he is.” Gabriel glanced at the countess. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but he’s a budding painter, so even in the most social of settings he’s usually considering the line of people’s faces, their clothing, coloring, and so on, even while he’s supposedly engaged in conversation.”
The countess looked him in the eye. “I see.”
So she did play chess, but he was a master. “So Gerrard will meet with the company’s representatives tomorrow evening. I’ve chosen the Burlington as it’s the sort of place at which someone like Gerrard’s supposed self would stay. He’ll have a suite, and while he speaks with whoever arrives to make the presentation in the sitting room, I’ll be listening from the adjoining bedchamber.”
“Do you expect Crowley to appear?”
“Impossible to be sure. There’s no reason he needs to show himself but, based on how he’s behaved in the past, I suspect he’ll be there. He seems to take delight in personally gloating over those he swindles.”
“I want to attend—to listen in on this meeting.”
Gabriel frowned. “There’s no need for you to be there.”
“Nevertheless. I’d like to hear for myself what the Company offers and, ultimately, it means we’ll have an extra witness to the presentation if need arises.”
Gabriel frowned harder. “What about Gerrard? If you want to preserve your anonymity, surely you won’t want him to know of your existence. While I might respect your request not to discover your identity, Gerrard is, after all, only eighteen and possesses an artist’s eye.”
She stopped. “He doesn’t know that you’re investigating the company at my behest?”
“As I’ve investigated other companies purely through my own inclination, there was no need to advance any reason for my interest in the Central East Africa Gold Company. Particularly not with Crowley at its helm.”
She fell silent; he could almost hear her mind working. Then she looked up. “Will Mr. Debbington actually be staying at the Burlington?”
“No. He’ll arrive about half an hour before the meeting’s due to start.”
“Very well—I’ll arrive before him. I assume you’ll be there?”
Gabriel set his lips. “Yes, but—”
“There’ll be no danger to me personally, or to my anonymity, if I secret myself in the bedchamber before Mr. Debbington arrives, hear the presentation, and then wait until after he’s left to do the same.”
Gabriel held her veiled gaze. “I cannot fathom why you should be so set on senselessly exposing yourself—”
“I insist.”
Chin angled imperiously, she held his gaze. Lips thinning, he let the moment stretch, and stretch, then grudgingly gave way. “Very well. You’ll need to arrive at the Burlington no later than nine.”
He sensed the triumph that flooded her—she thought she’d won a round. Under her mask, she was no doubt beaming. He kept his lips compressed, his frowning gaze on her veiled face.
“I’ll leave you now.” Withdrawing her hand, she looked back up the street.
He glanced around and saw a small black carriage, presumably the one that had driven him home from Lincoln’s Inn, drawn up by the curb behind them. “I’ll walk you to your carriage.” Before she could blink, he recaptured her hand and trapped it on his sleeve. She hesitated, then acquiesced, somewhat stiffly.
Gabriel raked the carriage as they neared, but it was an anonymous affair—small, black and unadorned—identical
to the second carriage most large households maintained in the capital. Used to ferry their owners about discreetly, such carriages carried no insignia blazoned on the door, or identifying detail worked into the body. No hint of the countess’s identity there.
The horses were nondescript. He glanced at the coachman; he was hunched over the reins, his head sunk between his shoulders. The man wore a heavy coat and plain breeches—no livery.
The countess had thought of everything.
He opened the carriage door and handed her in. Pausing on the step, she looked back at him. “Until tomorrow evening at nine.”
“Indeed.” He held her gaze for an instant, then let her go. “I’ll leave a message with the porter to conduct you to the suite.” Stepping back, he shut the door, then stood and watched the carriage drive away.
Only when it had rumbled around the corner did he allow his victorious smile to show.
He was waiting in the best suite at the Burlington when, at five minutes to nine o’clock the next evening, she knocked on the door. He opened it and stood back, careful not to smile too intently as, inevitably veiled and cloaked, she swept past him.
Shutting the door, he watched as she scanned the room, taking in the two lamps on side tables flanking the hearth, spilling their light over the scene. Two armchairs and a sofa were drawn up in a comfortable arrangement around a low table before the hearth. Heavy curtains screened the windows; the fire dancing in the grate turned the scene cozy. A well-stocked tantalus stood within reach of one of the armchairs.
When she turned to face him, he got the distinct impression she approved of his stagecraft. “When will Mr. Debbington arrive?”
Gabriel glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Soon.” He nodded at the door opposite the hearth. “Perhaps you’d care to inspect our vantage point?”
Her skirts swirled as she turned; he followed as she crossed the room.
A Secret Love Page 12
