Her Secret Lover

by Sara Bennett

  Young, of course. No scars, no villainous sneer. His face was handsome, a straight nose with thin nostrils, high cheekbones, dark eyebrows in contrast to his fair hair, and his lashes were also dark. His chin was stronger without the mask, a stubborn chin, giving his handsome face character and strength, while his lips were sensual.

  Despite his obvious masculinity, he looked vulnerable in his sleep. Antoinette lifted her hand, her fingers hovering, but she did not touch him. She did not dare. But she could see on his cheek the beginnings of a beard. She wanted to kiss him, to take him in her arms and ask him what was happening to them.

  Swiftly, lightly, she pressed her lips to his brow.

  He moved, his eyelids flickering, and murmured, “Marietta…?”

  The name startled her and she drew back. Marietta? Another woman? Well, of course he would have a woman somewhere, a man like this. Did she really think she was the only one? She was being very naïve. She was a distraction; he thought her Appleby’s mistress and perhaps there was a frisson of excitement in being with her, especially if he envied his employer, but any deeper emotion was out of the question.

  The idea depressed her, but she forced herself to be practical and shrug it off.

  No, she must not begin to think of love. They were using each other. Soon enough she would find a way to escape, and then she would never see him again.

  But all the same, the woman’s name—Marietta—lodged in her chest like a stone. Uncomfortable, immovable, and unbearable.

  Chapter 19

  Gabriel woke suddenly in the growing dawn. The air was cool against his bare skin, and he shivered and turned his head, wincing as the ties on his mask tightened on a caught strand of his hair. Antoinette lay curled up beside him, her hand under her cheek, her loose hair across her face. He reached out and gently smoothed it back. She looked young and innocent, not at all the kept woman who slept with men like Appleby for the comfort and wealth they provided her.

  Sir James had said something of the sort, he remembered. And his reply? He’d warned Sir James that she could play any part necessary to get what she wanted and could not be trusted. Gabriel knew he should take heed of his own advice, but things had come too far.

  He climbed out of the bed and stretched, yawning. His body was relaxed and replete, but in contrast his feelings were raw. Confused. And he didn’t want to delve into them too deeply. He’d been dreaming about Aphrodite’s Club and his half sister, Marietta. In his dream she’d been crying, begging him to save her inheritance, and he’d promised he would.

  “All you care about is that woman,” she retorted.

  “I’m seducing her to gain control over her,” he explained. It was half true, but Marietta didn’t understand.

  Ironically, Antoinette would probably understand his motives only too well. For all her eagerness, he guessed she had her own secrets where he was concerned, keeping him too occupied to care about the letter being a big one of them. Well, he was in her bedchamber now; why didn’t he make a search? Prove to himself he hadn’t forgotten his real purpose in being here.

  Prowling about the room, he could see no obvious papers lying about. He began to peer inside furniture, rifling through neatly folded clothing. There were some truly breathtaking undergarments, constructed of the finest silk, in a mouthwatering array of colors. But no letter. He could also swear the letter wasn’t concealed on her person—he’d caressed every part of her. His conclusion was she’d hidden it somewhere in the manor, and the only way to get her to give up her secret was to persuade her to hand it over to him.

  Next time…

  Gabriel pulled on his clothing, leaving his shirt unfastened and his feet bare, and carefully opened the door. When he found himself pausing to glance back for one last look, he knew, with self-disgust, that he really was in trouble.

  Mary saw him leave the house, stopping to pull on his boots before striding away into the woods. His head was bent, his face pensive, and he didn’t even notice her standing outside the stillroom.

  Her own face felt stiff and taut, and a headache was still throbbing behind her reddened eyes. She knew where he’d been; with her. The knowledge of their affair was like a torment that never left her. At night she tossed and turned, tears on her cheeks, and during the day she could barely function. Her hatred and anger were eating her up, and she knew there was only one thing she could do to stop it.

  Rid them of Antoinette Dupre.

  It was clear to her—or as clear as possible in her sleepless, frenzied state—that once Antoinette Dupre was gone, then Master Gabriel would return to her. He would be able to see again, and the first thing he would see was Mary. She had been his love once, and she would be again.

  She’d even visualized the scene.

  He would gasp and smile and call her name, and she would turn expectantly, and then she would be in his arms, held so tightly she could barely breathe. “Mary, Mary,” he would cry, “how could I have been so blind? Will you forgive me and forever be my wife?” And of course she would forgive him and they would walk about the garden hand in hand, making plans for their future here at the manor. Then, in time, there would be children and gray hairs and…But it was usually around this point that Mary foundered. She sometimes wondered, too, what they would talk about in the evenings. Gabriel was an educated gentleman who knew the world, and she was a fishing village girl with little education and little experience. Would he smile and look at her as if she was funny and quaint? Or would he grow impatient with her, and stop talking?

  Mary didn’t want that, but somewhere deep in her heart she already knew her hopes weren’t practical. Lord Appleby owned Wexmoor Manor now, and Gabriel was a fugitive. Besides, educated gentlemen didn’t marry lowly serving girls—they might do other things to them but they didn’t marry them. But she refused to accept her dreams were just that, dreams. “We’ll jump that hurdle when we come to it,” she told herself firmly. “Gabriel will know what to do.” She believed in him; she must trust him. Yes, once Antoinette Dupre was gone everything would fall into place.

  She’d sent the letter.

  Mary remembered the long hours she’d spent over the wording, before copying them out on a sheet of Lord Appleby’s writing paper in her best handwriting. Still she wasn’t completely satisfied. Her attendance at the village school had been brief and she knew such things didn’t come easily to her, but she did her best. As soon as Lord Appleby understood the urgency of the situation here at Wexmoor Manor, he’d leave London and travel full tilt to Devon, she had no doubt about it. And then…

  She smiled as much as her aching head would allow.

  …Then Gabriel would be hers again.

  By the time Antoinette woke the morning was well advanced. She didn’t usually sleep late—she was an early riser—but after last night she could understand why she was so tired. Sexual connection, it seemed, was better than hot milk and honey when it came to guaranteeing a good night’s rest.

  The sky was clear and bright, and she decided it was the perfect day to go horse riding. Quickly she rose and washed and dressed, hurrying downstairs and startling Mrs. Wonicot, who was just on her way up.

  “Miss Dupre?” she said. “I was coming to wake you. Miss Dupre!” her voice grew more strident as Antoinette strode by, heading for the door. “Don’t you want your breakfast?”

  “Later.” Antoinette waved her hand airily and kept going, smiling at the thought of Mrs. Wonicot’s furious expression.

  At first glance the stable building appeared to be empty. She made her way toward the stall where the mare she rode last time was watching her over the door, and then she heard a sound. There was Coombe in one of the far stalls with a pitchfork, cleaning out the mucky straw and replacing it with clean.

  “I’m going riding, Coombe,” she called.

  He barely glanced up at her. “No, you’re not, miss. I have my instructions.”

  He was wearing a grubby jacket with that cap pulled down low over his face, his co
arse black hair sticking out in all directions. Did he never brush it? Antoinette knew she should cultivate Coombe if she wanted him to help her escape, but it was difficult to get enthusiastic. She could smell the earthy, horsy smell of him from several feet away.

  She took a shallow breath as she stepped closer. “Then come with me. I’d like an—an escort,” she declared brightly. “I don’t feel safe since the highwayman held up my coach. Coombe, do please ride with me?”

  He stopped pitching the soiled hay into a wooden barrow, resting on the fork and staring at his boots. “Ride with you?” he repeated in his almost incomprehensible accent, as if the concept was as foreign to him as bathing.

  Antoinette laughed at the note in his voice. “Good heavens, Coombe, don’t tell me you can’t ride? I certainly won’t believe you. Especially when I know you’re such a racing enthusiast.”

  He gave a snort and finally looked at her.

  Just for a moment, a heartbeat, she thought she knew him. But the impression was gone an instant later. This was Coombe, she reminded herself. His face was sweaty and streaked with dirt, and some of his black hair had fallen into his eyes. His kerchief was tied around his mouth and chin; she supposed to save him the dust, or the smell, of his task. Although if the truth be told, if anything smelled it was Coombe. He needed a good long scrub. Her tongue itched to tell him so but she couldn’t afford to upset him. He was her one hope.

  “Well then…?” she said impatiently, tapping her foot. “Will you come with me? Or do I have to take Wonicot, and watch him fall off his mount after ten paces?”

  Coombe’s hunched shoulders shook as if he might be laughing but he made no sound. With elaborate care he rested his pitchfork against the wall and slouched past her to saddle her mare. Antoinette gulped in fresh air as soon as he’d moved on.

  “I’ll come with you, miss,” he growled. “If that’s what you want.”

  Antoinette beamed a smile. “Oh, I do, Coombe, I really do.”

  Gabriel was glad he’d made such an effort with his disguise this morning. In hindsight, something had told him she might be seeking out Coombe when she woke. He remembered that whenever she was with the highwayman her next move seemed to be a desperate need to escape. So he’d donned Coombe’s filthy jacket and he’d rubbed mud onto his face, just enough to disguise his appearance, and pulled on the hideous concoction of cap and horse hair. The final touch was the red kerchief.

  His own mother wouldn’t know him. Better yet, she wouldn’t want to get within a mile of him, and from the expression on Antoinette’s face, she felt the same.

  It was amusing, watching her trying to ingratiate herself with him while at the same time holding her breath. He knew very well she was only wheedling him into going with her because she wanted something. Well, he was happy to while away the hours playing the country dolt. It would give him the chance to learn what she was up to.

  She was a good rider, he admitted critically, as he followed her from the stable yard and out onto the road. Her back was straight, her hands up, and she moved well. Wherever she came from, she’d learned to ride like a lady.

  Gabriel was well aware that the courtesan Madame Aphrodite was from poor and difficult circumstances and had transformed herself into a lady, learning to talk and walk and pass as a gentlewoman. He didn’t think it was the same for Antoinette Dupre. Her behavior was so instinctive, and she had a touch of arrogance—as if she was used to being treated with deference. In his opinion she was born a lady, however low she might have fallen.

  Gabriel was well aware that some women were forced into selling their bodies by poverty and family circumstances, gentlewomen as well as those from less privileged backgrounds. A friend of his family had run off with a suitor after her parents refused them permission to marry. Unfortunately the parents were right, because the girl was abandoned by the scoundrel, and without the protective shelter of a wedding ring, she was considered ruined. Subsequently her family refused to take her back, and she found herself with no option but to seek work. But her education and upbringing hadn’t trained her for anything apart from being a gentleman’s wife. For a time she was employed as a governess, underpaid and badly treated, but eventually the position wore her down and she left. After that she slipped out of the circle of his friends and acquaintances, and into the murky world of the demimondaine. She became the mistress of the owner of several drapery stores, a man whose wealth had lifted him higher than the class to which he’d been born, and who felt her ladylike ways contributed to his social status.

  Had something similar happened to Antoinette?

  Had she, abandoned and alone, had no option but to seek her livelihood by using her wits and her body? Or was he making excuses for her, trying to turn her into a fallen angel, someone who had gone to Appleby without a choice, someone he could save. Gabriel admitted it was quite possible she’d leaped into her profession with both feet, perfectly happy to trade her favors for cold hard cash and a comfortable lifestyle.

  He didn’t blame her, nor did he despise her. Since his own life had become precarious, he’d grown to understand so much better a longing for all the comforts he’d once taken for granted. And he was by no means destitute or abandoned. How much worse must it be for someone who was? How much greater the temptation?

  “Hurry up, Coombe!”

  She sounded impatient. She’d been riding ahead of him, but now he saw that while he’d been woolgathering she’d stopped and turned to see why he was dawdling. Quickly Gabriel assumed Coombe’s blank expression and kicked his mount into a gallop, coming level with her and then passing right by. Her surprised gasp made him want to laugh out loud, but a moment later he heard the pounding of the mare’s hooves as she made up ground on him.

  “I didn’t think you had it in you, Coombe,” she called breathlessly, as she came level with him again.

  He grunted, holding on to his cap with one hand, so it didn’t fly off.

  “You’re wasted here at Wexmoor Manor. You should be in a stable with horses that win races.”

  Ah, back to her agenda, he thought, hiding a smile. Did she really see Coombe running a racing stable? Gabriel tried to picture the groom in a well-cut jacket and breeches, with shiny riding boots and a cigar clenched between his teeth as he shouted out orders. No, he couldn’t see it, no matter how hard he tried. Antoinette’s imagination must be far more vivid than his.

  “I happen to know someone who owns such a stable,” she said airily. They’d slowed their horses now and were ambling along under the leafy boughs of the trees that lined the lane.

  “They wouldn’t take me on, miss.”

  It took a moment for her to interpret what he’d said, but she managed, more or less. “Of course they would, Coombe. I’d put in a good word for you, you can be sure of that.”

  But I’d have to help you run off to London first, wouldn’t I, my pretty lady?

  “I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to do,” she went on, oblivious to his mocking thoughts.

  He slowed to let her go ahead, the lane narrowing into a path leading to the top of a rounded hill. The magnificent view opened up before them. It was one of Gabriel’s favorites, but Antoinette was too wrapped up in her scheming to notice.

  “Coombe…” She turned to him, a frown wrinkling her smooth brow. “Do you think you’d like a life like that? Of course, it would mean leaving Wexmoor Manor, but there’s so much more out there in the world. I’m quite certain you wouldn’t miss it.”

  He hunched down over his horse’s neck, twisting the reins between his gloved fingers, making himself look miserable. “This is me home, miss. I was born here. My—me ma died when I was a little ’un and Sir John took me in. I’ve never known any home but here at the manor.”

  Her expression softened. He’d touched her heart, it seemed, or else she was a very good actress. “I know this is your home,” she said gently, “but sometimes it’s necessary to leave the past behind, if you want to better yourself
.”

  “Is that what you did, miss? When you went to be Lord Appleby’s bedmate?”

  Her eyes flashed but she tamped her anger down. “In a way, I—I suppose…But we’re not talking about me, are we, Coombe? We’re discussing you. Don’t you want to better yourself?”

  “Better meself? I have a warm stable to sleep in and Mrs. Wonicot’s cooking. How can I do better’n that?”

  Her impatient sigh was clearly audible. “I meant to make a better life for yourself. Sleep in a proper bed, for instance, and eat in a dining room instead of in a corner of the kitchen. Wear fine clothes, live in a fine house with—with servants.”

  “Is that why you sleep in His Lordship’s bed, miss? To make a ‘better life’ for yourself?”

  No, she definitely didn’t like to be reminded of that. He saw the color stain her cheeks as she struggled not to give him a sharp set-down. But he’d spoken with such guileless innocence she could hardly reprimand him for insolence, even if she didn’t have the added agenda of keeping him sweet.

  “I…Well, not quite,” she managed at last through tight lips. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip, Coombe.”

  He decided to push her a bit further. “Oh aye? Mrs. Wonicot says you’re bad, miss. She says a woman like you might make me do things…things I oughtn’t.”

  Antoinette’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed.”

  “But I don’t think you’re bad,” he added hastily. “You’ve always been kind to me. Once Mrs. Wonicot gets an idea in her head, then there’s no stopping her. Me and Mary have a laugh about it sometimes. Mary’s very pretty, don’t you think, miss?”

  Her face brightened as she saw a chance to bring the conversation back to her favorite subject. “Do you have a girl, Coombe?”

  A girl? Hmm, there was a question.

  “I like girls, miss, but they don’t like me.”

  He waited. He could imagine what she was thinking but she could hardly be honest, not if she wanted his help.