Dancing with a Rogue (20 page)

He nodded to Smythe as he approached the door. A flicker of surprise crossed the man's face at his appearance.

“Shall I call a carriage, sir? 'Tis cold and wet.”

Sir was a hell of a lot better than “my lord.”

“No,” he said. “Thank you. I am just taking a stroll.”

Smythe had the discretion not to look surprised at the idea of his master taking a stroll in the rain. He was obviously adapting to his new master's strange habits. “I will see to your clothes while you are gone.”

Gabriel nodded. God, he wished he could confide in the man. He needed an ally.

He dismissed the idea as he walked down the steps to the street.

A number of carriages passed and splashed water on him as he walked quickly down the street, then turned onto a less traveled lane. He wanted as few people as possible to notice him.

He increased his pace, ducking his head against the wind. He didn't mind the weather. He was well used to storms at sea, to rain that felt like ice.

Gabriel knew the way. He had a mind that could readily memorize maps and charts. He knew exactly where he was going.

He discarded the idea of taking the first lodging he saw. The neighborhood was too respectable. He would be noticed going in and coming out in different clothes.

The second was not acceptable, either, but for the opposite reason. It was in a neighborhood where nothing would be safe. He suspected everything he left there would disappear in a matter of moments.

The third came closest to meeting his needs.

It was a plain but clean room located over a tavern. Patrons would be going in and out. No one would notice what he wore. There was a back stairway.

The tavern owner lived above the tavern and rented out three rooms. Two of them were to ladies, he announced.

More likely, prostitutes, he thought. Better and better.

“I have some … a friend,” Gabriel explained without explaining. “Discretion is important.”

“Ah, a lady.”

He did not say anything, letting his silence confirm it.

The man studied his plain but obviously good clothes. “How long will you be needing it?”

Gabriel grinned. “I am not sure. As long as the lady's husband …”

Greed shone in the tavern owner's eyes. “Ten pounds a month.”

It was robbery. The landlord might as well be wearing a mask and carrying a gun.

“Seven,” he bargained, knowing it was expected.

“In advance?”

“Yes.”

“Done,” the man said.

“As I said, I want discretion,” Gabriel pressed. “It will be worth an extra five pounds at the end of two weeks.”

The man brightened. “Yes, Mr.—?”

“Mr. Brown,” Gabriel said.

“Mr. Brown, it is. I am John Bailey. When can you pay?”

Gabriel took out a small pouch of coins and counted out fifteen pounds.

“When do you want to use it?”

“I will be bringing some of my belongings over later today,” he said.

Bailey nodded.

It was done.

Monique looked at the cards collecting in the bowl on the front table, along with a growing collection of gifts and flowers.

Poor Mrs. Miller. She was harried. Monique had her returning gifts as quickly as they came, particularly to Stanhope, Stammel, and Daven.

She wanted to make it clear to all of them that she did not care for money. Then when the thefts began, no one would look in her direction. Hopefully, they would look at each other.

Back went a silver comb and a pearl necklace and a silk shawl. Flowers were refused as the number threatened to overtake the small town house. Candy was given to the poor and a note sent to givers thanking them for a donation to the unfortunate.

In the meantime she dined with Stammel at London's most fashionable restaurant. Every head turned as they entered. In hours, the odds would change in the contest.

She knew how to win his heart. Let him talk.

So she listened as he bragged on his business prowess.

“I understand you and Daven are partners with Lord Stanhope,” she said, widening her eyes with admiration. “I believe you must be the one with the ideas.”

He visibly preened. “I would not say that, although my advice is always heeded,” he said.

“I hear that you have the largest shipping company in London.”

“Not quite, mademoiselle, but we are getting there. Of course, most gentlemen do not dabble in business, but when you have talent …”

“You should use it,” she finished. “I admire people who lead useful lives.”

“And your family?” she asked after a short pause.

His face flushed. “A wife, mademoiselle, but she stays in the country.”

She gave him a Gallic shrug. “Most men have wives. It is of no matter. What of Lord Stanhope?”

He frowned at the conversation turning to another man. “His wife died,” he said shortly.

“Hmm,” she said.

“He has vowed to never marry again,” he added, as if afraid she might think a widower a better prospect. It was not unheard of for a member of the nobility to marry an actress. “And there is …” He stopped himself.

“Ah,” she said, “you cannot stop there. What did you intend to say?”

“Only that he is not … interested in serious alliances.”

He is already thinking of betraying his partner by saying too much.

She was well aware of what he had started to say. There were rumors.

She smiled. “Are you saying you are?”

“I would make a contract. You would be a wealthy woman,” he rushed on, obviously feeling he had an opportunity.

“I do not care about wealth,” she said.

“What do you care about?”

“I will be clear,” she said. “I enjoy the company of men. But I am not a loose woman. I do not want or need an entourage of admirers.”

“Then what …?”

“I want a companion whom I can trust and who trusts me, who is willing to talk to me about important matters. I want a friend as well as a lover.”

He looked startled. Not quite sure what to say. It was quite obvious he had never considered a woman in that way. He squinted his eyes as he tried to understand.

“But of course,” he said, obviously intent upon doing or saying anything that might win him this challenge.

“I have never done this before,” she said, “but the three of you are all so charming.”

He looked confused.

She starting eating again. The fowl was quite exceptional.

Gabriel walked down the street outside of Stanhope's town house and collapsed on a corner like the beggar he pretended to be. He buried his head in his arms. He had been here for the last three evenings. No one paid any attention to him now.

He wore the same ragged clothes he'd been wearing these past few days after a visit to his tavern room, and a cap that came down over the dark wig he wore. The clothes were loose enough to conceal a pistol. And a knife. He was proficient in the use of both.

It was late evening. Lights shone from five rooms of the Stanhope home. He saw other figures in the library.

Excellent. He hoped it was Stammel and Daven. The fact that the three business partners were now pitted against each other in seeking the favor of an actress made the contest all the more interesting.

For Gabriel's plan to succeed, he needed to visit Stanhope's safe after the other two men had been at the residence. They had to be the only two to have had access to the safe.

So, as he had the past few nights, he hunched down inside his coat and waited.

Pamela sat on a window seat and stared out of the window at the park across the way. The streetlamps shone down on the green lawn beneath, and she was reminded of the green lawns at home.

Her gaze was drawn to a beggar sitting on the grass down the street. He'd been there several days, but he was always gone in the morning. One afternoon she'd started out to take him a farthing, but her father had stopped her.

“We do not want him here,” he said. “I forbid you from encouraging him. If he is not gone soon, I'll call the runners on him.”

She'd not tried again, because she was afraid the servants would tell her father, and he would have the beggar hurt. But it wounded her heart to see such misery.

She counted the minutes until her father left on his usual nightly rounds. Tonight it was later than usual, but he had those terrible friends with him. She hated the way they looked at her, as if she were a filly to be sold.

After they were gone, she could visit the library and find something to read. There would not be the romances she loved or the poetry, but at this moment she would read anything she could find.

Anything to keep her mind off the current disaster. She yearned to be back in the countryside, sitting beside a stream with Robert Bard, the son of the local physician. He would be leaving soon for Edinburgh to resume his study of medicine.

Her father would not consent to the marriage.

She had often asked her aunt why her father would even care, since he had not presented her at court nor given her a season. Her aunt would get a tight look on her face and introduce another subject. It wasn't until she heard two servants talking just before she left that she really understood.

“Surprised I am he sent for Lady Pamela,” she heard the housekeeper say. “I thought he feared her appearance would stir up all that talk about—”

“Hush,” said the butler. “He will discharge us all if he knew we were gossiping.”

“Everyone knows he killed the poor thing's mother,” the housekeeper said defiantly. “The poor lady. I worry about the young miss with 'im.”

Pamela's heart froze. She'd always known something dark and secretive pervaded her father's house. He'd always been cold to her, cold and even cruel. She'd been grateful to be sent to her aunt's home.

And now she knew why she had been sent away. In the few days she'd been here, she had seen his eyes. He hated her.

Because of her mother? Because he had hated the woman who had given her birth?

Pamela didn't remember much about her mother. She had died when Pamela was only six. She remembered sadness. And the smell of roses. She remembered kind touches.

Her journey to London had been full of fear and her meeting with her father so dreadful that she'd visibly trembled. She'd tried to keep her legs from failing her when he'd said he wanted her to attract a marquess.

Her apprehension had doubled when she'd chanced upon a newspaper discarded by her father. She glanced to the fold and noticed the mention of the Marquess of Manchester. A gambler, the story had said, and a poor one at that. An ungraceful upstart from America.

She'd shuddered.

Oddly enough, he had been the only one who had been even a little kind to her. Everyone else at her father's soiree had looked at her as if she had two heads. She was an earl's daughter who had never been presented at court. Apparently, that was enough to keep tongues wagging. Had she disgraced the family? Was she weak of mind? Had her father really killed her mother?

She'd heard the whispers and they'd cut to the quick.

Then she'd been forced to take the odd marquess to the garden despite the questionable nature of an unchaperoned outing.

Surprisingly, he had proved to be kind. Or if not kind, disinterested in her as a marriage prospect and ready to make a bargain that would help them both. She hadn't believed it at first. If he was a friend of her father's, he had an ulterior motive.

And he did. He obviously wanted to stay in her father's good graces. And yet she believed there was more to it than that. Perhaps he really was sympathetic.

She wanted to believe. She wasn't sure she should believe.

She had no choice.

She thought of Robert again, wishing she could run off and join him in Edinburgh. He had even proposed that. But she knew that her father would destroy Robert and his father. She could not let that happen.

She watched as a carriage rolled up and her father entered it. She exhaled, not aware that she had bottled up her breath as he walked from the house.

The very room seemed to express relief.

He would not be back until dawn, if his pattern held true.

She looked out again. The beggar appeared asleep. Maybe he would still be there in the morning. She would take him a few coins then, or maybe some pastries. Cook always made more than they could eat.

She put on her night robe, lit a candle from the oil lamp, and padded down the stairs. No Ames. He must be upstairs attending to her father's wardrobe. The other servants had retired to their quarters in the basement or up on the third floor.

She used the candle to guide her way into the darkened library and set it on a table. The dark curtains were drawn and she placed the candle where it was hidden from the window so not even a flicker of light could be seen.

She skimmed the titles on the shelves, pulling down one book, then another. Some of the books had never been opened. She loved the smell of leather and paper.

She chose one volume, a history of China, then rearranged the books so that it didn't look as if one was missing.

Clutching the book to her side, she retrieved her candle and padded back up the stairs.

Chapter Twelve

Gabriel waited until all but one light in the hallway was quenched. Grateful for the fog creeping in from the river, he waited until it enveloped the street, making even the outline of Stanhope's town house difficult to see.

Under a gaslight he looked at his pocket watch. Past one. He probably had an hour to get in and out.

The street was quiet with the exception of an occasional lone carriage. Stanhope and his friends had left the house an hour ago. Long enough for the servants to have retired.

He moved along the street until he reached the gate into Stanhope's property. As before, it wasn't locked. He opened it and entered. He didn't even need to slink into the shadows thanks to the fog enveloping him. At the back door, he took out his picks. In seconds he had the lock picked, and he slid inside the house.