A Secret Love (32 page)

Eyeing the cap with savage dislike, Gabriel bit back the words “Probably not.” Her caps offended him at some elemental level. There was, now he thought of it, one sure way of getting rid of them once and for all. Considering the prospect of never seeing another cap covering her hair, he guided her toward the shadowy end of the terrace, presently deserted. “Did Wiggs report on his meeting with the judge?”

Reaching the balustrade at the end of the flags, they surveyed the thick bushes beyond the stone barrier, then turned and leaned against it, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, in oddly companionable comfort.

“Yes. It seems we can ask for a decision declaring the note invalid through a petition directly to the bench, without evidence or deliberations being heard in open court.”

“Good. That'll make things easier.”

“The judge said the speed at which a decision would be given will depend on the quality of our evidence. The more detailed and complete the evidence, the quicker the judgment. If the case was cut and dried, a decision could be formalized in a matter of days.”

Gabriel nodded. “When we're ready, I'll alert Devil. He'll make sure it gets immediate attention.” Alathea's sudden grin caught his eye. “What?”

She glanced at him. “Just the way you operate.” She waved. “Just like that—throw a duke into the equation.”

He shrugged. “If one has a duke to throw . . .”

Her grin fading, Alathea asked, “Have your people learned anything more?”

“No grand revelations, but Montague is making headway with all those figures and projections Crowley spouted. Needless to say, they don't add up. My contacts in Whitehall are still checking the claims he made about various foreign government departments and officials, and the permissions he said the company had already received. The more things that are false, the wider the front on which the company's claims are disproved, the easier it will be to convince the court.”

“But a witness—an eyewitness as it were—would be the definitive proof. Have you heard anything more about the captain?”

“Yes and no. Mostly no. There are so many shipping lines, and at too many I have no contact from whom I can discreetly inquire. We can't risk any overt search, not even for the captain. Crowley's too powerful. He may well have contacts who'll report any unusual queries in all shipping lines dealing with his present area of interest.”

“Is he that omnipotent?”

“Yes. Don't underestimate him. He may not have attended any recognized school, but he knows how to play his connections well. Witness Archie Douglas.” After a moment, Gabriel stated, “Whatever we do, we must never forget Crowley.”

The words disturbed Alathea. Frowning, she shook them aside. “There must be some register of the ships and their captains, surely?”

“There is—it's kept by the Port Authority. There are two registers we need to look at—the log which lists all the ships as they enter the Pool of London along with their captain, and the main register of vessels, which shows which shipping line a particular ship sails for. Unfortunately, there was a scandal involving the last port registrar. Consequently, his successor is exceedingly resistant to the idea of allowing anyone access to either the log or the register.”

“Exceedingly resistant?”

“Short of an order from the Admirality or the Revenue, there's no way to view those books.”

“Hmm.”

Gabriel glanced at Alathea. “Don't even
think
of breaking in.”

She focused on him. “Why? Because you've already considered it?”

“Yes.” His lips twisted. He looked back along the terrace, then straightened. “The office is manned around the clock. At present, searching the log and register is impossible.”

Following his gaze to Lucifer, strolling through the shadows toward them, Alathea murmured, “Nothing's impossible when you're twelve years old.”

Gabriel shot her a look as Lucifer, brows high, joined them.

“What are you two doing out here?”

What do you think?
burned Gabriel's tongue. He hadn't yet had time to steer their interaction into the arena he'd intended.

Alathea waved at him. “He's looking into something for me. An investment.”

Turning his head, Gabriel looked at her; her gaze fixed on Lucifer's face, she ignored him.

Lucifer was looking at him. “I think the twins have noticed. They're bubbling and fizzing and exchanging glances like fury. God knows what they'll do once they realize it's true.”

“Once they realize what's true?” Alathea asked.

Lucifer turned his dark gaze on her. “When they realize
he's
not watching them anymore.”

“He's not?” Alathea looked at Gabriel. He'd developed a consuming interest in his manicured fingernails.

The damned man had listened to her. Listened, and allowed her to influence his direction. She felt slightly giddy.

“He's not. And, at the moment,
I'm
not, either.” Belligerently disapproving, Lucifer looked from her to Gabriel and back again. “I just hope you know what you're doing. That bounder Carsworth's sniffing about their skirts.”

Gabriel looked up. “Has he approached either of them?”

The question was mild, the underlying tone anything but.

“Well, no,” Lucifer admitted.

“Have either of the twins encouraged him?” Alathea put in.

Lucifer's expression turned mulish. “No. He intercepted Amelia—not overtly approaching her, just happening to come upon her in the crowd.”

“And?”

His reluctance was palpable, but eventually he conceded, “She put on an act like Aunt Helena. Looked him down, then up, then stuck her nose in the air and swanned past without a word.”

“Well, there you are.” Straightening, Alathea slipped an arm through his. “They've been very well trained. They're perfectly capable of managing, if you'll only let them.”

“Humph!” Lucifer let her turn him up the terrace. Arm in arm, they strolled back toward the open doors spilling light and noise across the flags. Although she spared him not a glance, Alathea was intensely aware that Gabriel prowled very close on her other side.

“Carsworth's a worm—no real threat.” Over her head, Lucifer exchanged a glance with Gabriel. “But what happens when they try that trick with someone with a bit more”—he gestured—“
savoir faire
?”

Gabriel shrugged. “So they'll learn.”

“Learn what?” Alathea asked as they stepped back into the ballroom.

“Learn what would happen if a lady tried such a ploy on, say, one of us,” Lucifer replied.

Alathea raised a brow at Gabriel.

He considered her, then flicked a glance at Lucifer. Confirming his brother's attention had wandered, he looked back, into her eyes. “Try it—and you'll see.”

There was something in his eyes that reminded her forcefully of a tiger; the purr in his voice underscored the connection. Recalling what had happened the last time she'd tried, nose in the air, to brush past him, Alathea stiffened her spine and lifted her head. “The twins will manage perfectly well.”

Lucifer, scanning the crowd, humphed again. “Well, if you refuse to watch, then I may as well put my time to better use.” One black brow arching, he glanced at Gabriel, then, with an elegant nod to Alathea, he shouldered his way into the crowd.

If anything, the crush had worsened. Alathea felt Gabriel's fingers close about hers, then her hand was on his sleeve as he steered her out of the ebb and flow before the doors. The tack he took was in the opposite direction to where they'd left her cavaliers.

“Can you see Mary and Alice?” Why she felt so breathless she couldn't understand.

“No.” His lips were close to her ear, his breath a warm caress. “But, like the twins, they'll manage.”

So would she, she vowed, as he found them a few square feet of space in which to stand comfortably. Although they were surrounded, they might as well have been alone for all the notice their neighbors took, too caught up in their own conversations.

“Now tell me, what did you mean about being twelve years old?” Gabriel trapped her gaze as she glanced up at him. “In case it's escaped your notice, neither you nor I are.”

The meaning in his eyes was quite different from the subject of their discussion. Alathea reined in her skittering wits. “I wasn't referring to us.”

“Good.”

The subtle easing of his lips did quite peculiar things to her nerves. She dragged in a breath. “I meant—”

“My dear Lady Alathea.”

Alathea turned to see the earl of Chillingworth emerging from the crowd. He swept her a necessarily abbreviated bow. “Such solace to discover a divine delight in this unholy crush.” He sent a measuring glance Gabriel's way. “So nice to know one's evening won't be a complete waste of time.”

Gabriel didn't respond.

Ignoring the burgeoning menace at her elbow, Alathea smiled and gave Chillingworth her hand. “I believe the musicians her ladyship has hired are quite exceptional.”

“If only one could hear them,” Chillingworth replied. “Are your sisters enjoying their Season?”

“Indeed. Our ball will be held next week—dare we hope you'll attend?”

“No other hostess,” Chillingworth avowed, “will have any hope of enticing me elsewhere.” His gray gaze roved Alathea's face, then settled on her eyes. “Tell me, have you seen the latest production at the Opera House?”

“Why, no. I had heard—” Alathea broke off as the sea of guests suddenly wavered, then parted. As the clamor of voices dimmed, the opening strains of a waltz filtered through.

“Ah.” Chillingworth turned to her. “I wonder, my dear, if you would do me the honor—”

“I'm afraid, dear boy, that this waltz is mine.”

Gabriel's languid drawl did nothing to conceal the steel beneath his words. Chillingworth looked up; over Alathea's head, gray eyes clashed with hazel. Turning, Alathea stared at Gabriel's face, noting the hard edge fell determination lent his features. Relinquishing Chillingworth's gaze, he met hers. “Shall we?”

He gestured to the rapidly clearing dance floor, then his arm shifted beneath her fingers and his hand closed about hers. His gaze flicked to Chillingworth. “His lordship will excuse us.”

Giddy, slightly stunned by what she'd glimpsed in his hooded eyes, Alathea smiled apologetically at Chillingworth. The earl bowed easily. Without more ado, Gabriel led her forward. A second later she was in his arms, whirling down the floor.

It took a full circuit before she caught her breath. He was holding her too close again, but she wasn't going to waste what breath she had protesting that point. “I don't suppose there's any sense in pointing out that this waltz wasn't, in fact, yours to claim.”

He met her gaze. “Not the slightest.”

The look in his eyes stole her breath. She mustered her wilting temper for protection. “Indeed? So whenever you feel like waltzing, I'm to expect—”

“You misunderstand. Henceforth,
all
your waltzes are mine.”

“All?”

“Every last one.” He expertly twirled her around the end of the room; as they joined the long line going back up the ballroom, he continued, “You may dance any other dance with whomever you please, but you'll waltz only with me.”

All inclination to argue, to protest, evaporated.
Don't tempt me.
He'd warned her once—the words were again in his eyes. They rang in her head. When she finally managed to draw in another breath, Alathea looked over his shoulder and tried to gather her wits and focus on his motives.

Only to fall victim to her senses, to the seductive shift and sway of their bodies, their long limbs twining, sliding, separating, then coming together again. He waltzed as he did all physical things—effortlessly, expertly, with an inherent grace that only emphasized the leashed power behind every move. He held her easily, his strength palpable, surrounding her, guiding her, protecting her.

She'd waltzed with others but none with his matchless authority, founded as it was in his knowledge, physical and sensual, of her. He knew she couldn't resist, that while in his arms she was helpless. That her heart beat unevenly, that her skin heated, that she would go wherever he led. He had her trapped in a web, one she had helped fashion, of passion, of yearning, of desire slaked by sensual reward. She was his and he knew it. What he meant to do with the knowledge, with her, remained an unsettling unknown.

The music ended and they slowed, then halted. She studied his face, the hard planes unyielding, uninformative, and inwardly sighed. “I should find Serena.”

Releasing her, he placed her hand on his sleeve, and protectively steered her through the crowd.

The following evening, Alathea left her bedchamber once again in a tearing rush. Heading for her office, she flung the door wide and dashed for her desk. Sitting, she pulled a sheet of paper free, settling it on the blotter as she flicked open the inkwell.

“You wanted me, m'lady?”

“Yes, Folwell.” Alathea didn't look up. Dipping a pen in the ink, she industriously scribbled. “I want you to deliver this note to Brook Street.”

“To Mr. Cynster, m'lady?”

“Yes.”

“Now, m'lady?”

“As soon as you get back from driving us to Almacks.”

A minute passed, the only sound in the room the scritch-scratch of the pen. Then Alathea blotted her missive, folded it, and scrawled Gabriel's name on the front. She dropped the pen and stood. Waving the note, she crossed the room to Folwell. “There won't be an answer.”

Folwell slipped the note into his coat pocket. “I'll drop it off on the way back from King Street.”

Alathea nodded. Lips compressed, she strode for the front hall where Serena, Mary, and Alice were waiting.