A Secret Love (17 page)

“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.

Pausing beyond the threshold, she looked around. “Oh, yes. This is perfect.”

Gabriel thought so, too. In the cavelike gloom created by the heavy curtains, a huge four-poster bed sat in stately splendor. It possessed a goodly number of plump pillows and the mattress was thick. He'd already confirmed it met his standards; the countess would have no reason to cavil.

She, of course, paid no attention to the bed; her comment was occasioned by the convenient gap between the half-closed door and its jamb, a gap that gave anyone standing behind the door a perfect view of the seats before the sitting room fireplace.

She was squinting at them when another knock fell on the door.

Gabriel met her questioning glance. “Gerrard. I'll need to rehearse his lines—he won't know you're here.”

He spoke in a whisper. She nodded. Leaving her, he crossed to the door.

Gerrard stood in the corridor looking sleekly debonair, his youth revealed only by the expectant light in his eyes. “All ready?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.” Waving him to the seats by the fire, Gabriel shut the door. “We should go over your lessons.”

“Oh, yes.” Gerrard made himself comfortable in what was clearly the host's chair. “I hadn't realized how much there was to learn about giving people money.”

“Many don't, which is precisely what men like Crowley count on.” Gabriel walked to the other armchair, then hesitated. Then he walked to the wall, picked up a straight-backed chair, and carried it over to face Gerrard. “Better to play safe . . .” Sitting, he fixed Gerrard with a keen glance. “Now . . .”

He led Gerrard through a catechism of terms and conditions, couched in popular investing cant. At the end of twenty minutes, he nodded. “You'll do.” He glanced at the clock. “We'd better speak in whispers from now on.”

Gerrard nodded. His gaze drifted to the tantalus; he rose and poured himself a small amount of brandy, swirling it around the glass to make it appear there'd been more originally. He met Gabriel's gaze as he resat, cradling the balloon in his fingers. “I'll offer them a drink, don't you think?”

“Good idea.” Gabriel nodded at the glass in Gerrard's hand.

Gerrard grinned.

An aggressive knock fell on the door.

Rising, Gabriel held up a hand to stay Gerrard, then picked up his chair and silently returned it to its place against the wall. After one last glance about the scene, he crossed to the darkened bedchamber and stepped behind the door.

Gerrard set down his glass, then stood, straightened his sleeves, and strolled to the door. Opening it, he looked out. “Yes?”

“I believe you're expecting us.” The deep booming voice carried clearly to the two behind the bedchamber door. “We represent the Central East Africa Gold Company.”

Gabriel took up his position behind the countess. In the darkened bedchamber, she was no more than a dense shadow, her veiled face lit by the weak light shafting between door and jamb. Slightly to one side of her, Gabriel watched Gerrard greet his visitors with earnest affability.

After shaking hands, Gerrard waved the two men to the sofa. “Please be seated, gentlemen.”

Gabriel struggled to block out the countess's perfume and concentrate; this was his first view of Crowley. Although he'd only been able to hear the names exchanged, he had no doubt which of the two was he. He was a bull of a man; comparing his height with Gerrard's, Gabriel pegged him at just on six feet. Six feet of muscled bulk; Crowley would easily have made two of Gerrard. Heavy black brows, thick and strong, slashed across his face, overhanging deep-set eyes. His face was fleshy, his features as coarse as the black hair that curled thickly over his large head.

That head appeared sunk directly into hulking shoulders; his arms were heavily thewed, as were his legs. He was wide and barrel-chested; he looked as strong as an ox and probably was. The only weakness Gabriel could discern was that he moved heavily, with no suppleness to his frame; when Gerrard offered a drink just as Crowley was about to sit, he had to turn his entire body toward Gerrard to answer, not just his head.

He was a distinctly unlovely specimen, but not specifically ugly. His thick lips were presently curved in an easy smile, softening the pugnacious line of his jaw and lending his otherwise unprepossessing countenance a certain charm. Indeed, there was raw energy—an animal magnetism—conveyed in the brilliance of his gaze and in the sheer strength of his movements.

Some women would find that attractive.

Gabriel glanced at the countess. Her attention was riveted on the scene in the sitting room. He looked back to see Crowley lean back on the sofa, completely at ease now he'd seen Gerrard. The expression on his face reminded Gabriel of a cat about to start playing with a mouse—anticipation of the kill oozed from Crowley's pores.

A soft sound reached Gabriel. He glanced at the countess, and realized he'd heard her swiftly indrawn breath. She'd tensed; as he watched, she almost imperceptibly shuddered.

Looking back at the scene playing out before them, Gabriel could understand. At his vacuous best, Gerrard was chatting amiably with the other man; he wasn't looking at Crowley's face. Yet Gerrard, sensitive and observant, wouldn't be—couldn't be—unaware of Crowely's potent menace. Gabriel's respect for the younger man grew as, with every evidence of artless innocence, Gerrard turned to Crowley.

While Gerrard engaged Crowley in banal preliminaries, asking about the basic nature of the company's business, Gabriel studied the other man, Swales, the company's agent.

He was average in almost every way—average height, average build, common in his coloring. His features were indistinguishable from those of countless others, his clothing likewise anonymous. The only thing that set Swales apart was that while his face with its bland expression seemed like a mask, his eyes were never still. Even now, although there was no one in the room bar Gerrard and Crowley, Swales's gaze darted constantly, now here, now there.

Crowley was the predator, Swales the scavenger.

“I see.” Gerrard nodded. “And these gold deposits are in the south of Africa, you say?”

“Not the south.” Crowley smiled patronizingly. “They're in the central part of the continent. That's where the ‘Central East' in the company's name comes from.”

“Oh!” Gerrard's face lit. “I see now, yes. What's the country's name?”

“There's more than one country involved.”

Gabriel listened, occasionally tensing as Gerrard artfully probed, but Patience's brother possessed a real knack for pressing just so far, then sliding away into patent and unthreatening ignorance one word before Crowley tensed. Gerrard played his part to perfection, and played Crowley just as well.

The countess was equally on edge, equally concerned; she tensed at precisely the same moments he did, then relaxed as Gerrard once again played out Crowley's line. Crowley was the one hooked on the lure, being artfully reeled in, not the other way about.

By the end of an hour, when Gerrard finally allowed Swales to show him the promissory note, they had heard all they could hope to hear, and that from Crowley's lips. He'd named the locations of three of the company's mining claims, and also cited towns where he said the company had a workforce and buildings established. He'd dropped a host of names supposedly of African officials backing the company, and of African authorities from whom permissions had been received. Under subtle prompting, he'd revealed figures aplenty, enough to keep Montague busy for a week. He'd also twice mentioned that the company was close to commencing the next phase of development.

They'd learned what they needed to know, and Gabriel was exhausted by the constant ebb and flow of helpless tension. The countess was sagging, too. Gerrard, on the other hand, was positively glowing. Crowley and Swales saw it as enthusiasm; Gabriel knew it was suppressed excitement at his triumph.

“So you see”—Swales leaned closer to Gerrard, pointing to the lower portion of the promissory note, now unrolled on Gerrard's knees—“if you just sign here, we'll be all right and tight.”

“Oh, yes. Right-ho!” Gerrard started rerolling the note. “I'll get it signed right and tight, and then we'll all be happy, what?” He grinned at Crowley and Swales.

There was an instant of silence, then Crowley said, “
Get
it signed? Why can't you sign it now?”

Gerrard looked at him as if he'd admitted to lunacy. “But . . . my dear man,
I
can't sign. I'm a minor.” Having dropped his bombshell, Gerrard looked from Crowley to Swales and back again. “Didn't you know?”

Crowley's face darkened. “No. We didn't know.” Shifting forward, he held out a hand for the note.

Gerrard grinned and held onto it. “Well, there's no need to worry, y'know. M'sister's my main guardian and she'll sign whatever I tell her to. Well, why wouldn't she? She's got no head for business—she leaves that to me.”

Crowley hesitated, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Gerrard's innocent countenance. Then he asked, “Who's your other guardian? Do they have to sign, too?”

“Well, yes—that's how things usually are if there's a female involved, don't y'know. But my other guardian's an old stick—bumbling old fool—my late pater's old solicitor. He lives buried in the country. Once m'sister signs, then he will, too, and all will be right as a trivet.”