Dancing with a Rogue (3 page)

Lynch offered her his arm. “Mademoiselle, you will not regret making this decision.”

He was a pompous man with an unctuous air. Yet he operated one of the most successful theaters in London, second only, she'd heard, to the famous Drury Lane Theater.

She gave him a smile. “
Merci
.”

“We will begin rehearsals on a new play tomorrow,” he said. “We have been waiting for you.”

“I look forward to returning to work,” she said in the unaccented English she'd perfected.

He looked pleased. “I will have the carriage at your residence at noon tomorrow. Perhaps you would have a late supper with me this evening?” he added hopefully.

“
Merci
,” she said. “But I am very tired.” She saw the disappointment in his eyes. “But tomorrow,
oui
.” She inwardly winced at the sudden gleam in his eyes. She didn't want an admirer in the manager of the theater. He was her employer. She didn't want any complications. But she did want information about the theater's clientele and about Thomas Kane, the Earl of Stanhope.

Lynch offered his arm, and she accepted it. The carriage was a public one. The driver jumped down from the box to help the seaman tie down her trunk on the carriage roof.

Lynch held the door open and offered assistance first to Monique, then to Dani. “I will take you to your rooms. I'm sure you will be pleased with them.” Acceptable lodgings had been part of her contract.

“And the schedule, monsieur?”

“We will have rehearsals for three weeks and then the opening. It is an amusing play,” he said quickly.

“I read it,” she said. “I agree with you.”

He seemed to slump with relief. “It is a farce. We are not licensed by the Crown to perform drama, but I hope to change that. If this play is successful, then I will apply for a license.”

“The Prince of Wales—Prinnie—will be in London when we open,” Lynch continued. “He has remarked to friends that he looked forward to your arrival. Your fame precedes you here,” he said, his hand touching her skirt.

In minutes, it would be up her skirt. She moved away and gave Lynch a stare that had quelled greater men.

His gaze dropped. “I hope you will think of me and the other members of the company as your family.”

“I'm sure I will,” she said, knowing she would do no such thing. She planned to keep to herself until she made the acquaintance of Stanhope. No tinge of scandal could touch her.

She had to be the unobtainable Ice Queen. Stanhope, according to her sources, always wanted what he couldn't have. The longer he couldn't have it, the more obsessive he became.

Monique knew she had to be careful. Her mother had called him a very dangerous man. He had tried to kill her mother, then had hunted her like an animal after she had escaped him. If he discovered Monique's true identity, he might well try to do the same to her.

She peered out at the shops and town houses as the carriage clattered through busy streets. She had never been to London, though her mother had often spoken wistfully of it and of several cousins who had helped her escape it. Monique had vowed to try to find them and give them help if they were in need, but they could never know who she was, not until Stanhope was either in prison or dead.

Stanhope.
Her father.

“We are nearing the theater,” Lynch said. “I thought you might like to see it before going to your rooms.”

She would be expected to be interested, and she made the suitable exclamations. But what she really wanted to know was the location of Stanhope's residence, the clubs he attended, and the identity of his acquaintances.

She decided to ask. “A friend of mine in Paris said I should look up the Earl of Stanhope.”

The smile left Lynch's face. “He is one to stay away from, mademoiselle,” he said.

“I am surprised at that,” she said. “My friend told me that he was most generous.”

Lynch paused, as if reluctant to say more. Then, “There will be many men who will be standing in line for moments of your time. Wealthy, well-placed gentlemen. I can help you make wise decisions.”

“Ah la,” she said, taking a fan from her reticule where she also carried a handkerchief as well as some coins. She opened the hand-painted Brise fan. “You are making him sound very dangerous. And interesting. I want you to send him several tickets for the new play.”

“Mademoiselle Fremon.…”

“Monique,” she said. “Please call me Monique. There should be no formalities between friends, and we will be friends,
oui
?”

“I truly hope so,” Lynch said, his hand back on her lap.

“Then I must really insist that you send the earl an invitation.”

Her employer muttered to himself.

“What was that, monsieur?”

“I will do as you wish, but please consider my warning. Stanhope is not an admired man.”

She blessed him with a smile, then returned to the subject much on her mind. “Are there places of entertainment where I can meet interesting people?”

His sharp glance studied her. “Interesting or dangerous?”

She fluttered the fan again. “Both.”

“I wish to protect my investment in you,” he said in a plaintive voice.

“Monsieur, I am twenty-five years old. I have worked for my living since I was seven. I have a small pistol and I know how to use it.”

His face went white. “A scandal …”

“A scandal would increase your attendance,” she replied easily. “Now where might Lord Stanhope go for a nightly entertainment, or would you not know?”

“I would not.” It was obvious he felt affronted that his advice was not being given due consideration. “I think it is only right that I tell you there are rumors surrounding Stanhope. Some say he killed his wife.”

“I am not his wife, nor am I interested in his protection. We merely have a mutual friend. No more, and la, you worry too much, Mr. Lynch, though it is rather sweet.”

She touched his cheek playfully with her fan.

The carriage drew up to a narrow town house across from a park.

Lynch looked at her nervously as she stepped down from the interior. “It is not large, but the rooms are charming. I am leasing them from a lord who kept his …” He stopped suddenly.

“Mistress,” she finished for him. “Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You do not have to be embarrassed. I am French,” she reminded him. “I am certainly aware of such arrangements.”

He released a long breath of air, and she suddenly realized he feared she would be insulted.

She needed someone on her side, someone who could help if she got in trouble. “It looks very pleasant,” she said. “I appreciate your assistance.”

“We want you to be happy.” He paused. “How is it you speak English so well? Almost without an accent?”

She'd known that question was coming. “I am an actress,” she explained. “I must be able to mimic many accents.”

“Our audiences will be charmed. We have many French here.”

“I know,” she said sadly. “It is so … triste that they have lost their homeland. But now that Napoleon is defeated, perhaps they can return home.”

“Perhaps you, too, will choose to make your home here.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“I heard that Napoleon attended your performances.”

“
Oui
, he came to see me perform several times. A little man, yet there was something about him …”

Before they reached the door of the town house, a small but very straight woman opened it and curtsied. “I have been expecting you, miss,” she said. “I'm Harriett Miller, the housekeeper. Everything is ready for your arrival. I hope it meets with your satisfaction.”

Her back was stiff, her expression neutral. It was obvious she didn't know what to expect, or if she would even be allowed to keep her position.

Monique gave her a quick smile. “I'm sure everything will be fine,” she said. “There's just my maid, Dani, and myself. We are not very demanding.”

The smile apparently lifted a burden from Mrs. Miller, because her shoulders relaxed. Her expression didn't change, and Monique wondered whether she disapproved of serving an actress or a French woman, or a combination of both.

Actresses were admired and even invited to grand events. But the admiration stopped short of total acceptance. Most were considered loose and a definite threat to women whose husbands were wont to stray.

“Would you like to inspect the rooms?” Harriett Miller asked.

“
Oui
,” she said.

The town house was small, yet the decor exceeded her expectations. The rooms had a tranquility to them; the furniture looked comfortable and flowers filled vases throughout. Her bedroom was decorated in shades of rose, light and pretty and feminine. A room to the side featured an unusually large tub. A gift from a lord to his mistress? Regardless, she eyed it with delight.

She returned downstairs, where Lynch was waiting for her.

“You were right,” she said. “It is perfect.”

“Then I will leave you to get rest,” he said. “I am told Mrs. Miller is a fine cook. A carriage will pick you up at twelve to meet the rest of the cast and to read through the play. Then later …”

He bowed and left the “then later” to her imagination.

Soon after, she had replaced her tightly laced corset and heavy dress with a dressing gown.

Dani served the tea Mrs. Miller had prepared and sat down with her mistress.

“And now it begins,” she said.

“
Oui
,” Monique agreed. “Tomorrow morning, we will go shopping for some new gowns. Dressmakers are notorious gossips. Perhaps we can find out establishments frequented by the Earl of Stanhope. I do not wish to wait until the play opens to do so. I also want to know who his friends are—if he has any.”

“I will talk to Mrs. Miller and other servants in the houses around us,” Dani said.

“Be very careful,” Monique warned her. “I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“I am just a maid,” Dani said. “No one even sees me.”

“I don't think that's quite right,” Monique said. Dani could be a real beauty if she tried. Her hair was a soft copper and her eyes a cool blue, but she pulled the former back in an unflattering knot and wore spectacles to shade the pain in those eyes.

Her loose, almost dowdy clothes hid a fine body. Like Monique, she was wary of men. Even under Monique's protection, she felt vulnerable. She'd been used as a child. She didn't intend to be used as an adult.

Dani met her gaze. “We can still go back,” she said. “It is your … papa. Perhaps it is better that you leave the past as it is.”

“I cannot, Dani. He tried to destroy my mother, then kill both of us. I could never come back here as who I am if he's still alive, and I hunger to know England. My mother loved it so …”

“Then I am with you,” Dani said. “Tomorrow, we begin.”

Monique nodded. Since that afternoon, another image had intertwined with her reasons for wanting to remain in England. Inexplicably, the gentleman aboard the American ship had remained in her thoughts, the picture of him so clearly outlined in her mind. But she would not mention him to Dani. That would make him too important.

And he
wasn't
important. She was not interested in romantic nonsense. She'd had no more than a fleeting glance at him and probably would never get another one.

But why did the image linger inside her? Why had it made an impact? Fate?

Ridiculous. She didn't believe in fate.

London

Gabriel grew impatient as the
Cynthia
's crew waited for their turn to dock and unload.

He'd thought about taking one of the tenders to shore but the man he was about to become wouldn't do that.

So he paced the deck, wondering about the men he would soon meet. Would they recognize him? His name?

He looked down at his clothes, the shirt and breeches, and knew he needed to go below and dress. The new marquess would never wear such informal clothes. No, he would be a peacock, a strutting American impressed with his new status.

As he waited, his mind wandered back to several hours earlier when he'd watched passengers disembark from another ship. One was a woman dressed in a ruby-red gown with a flamboyant hat designed to attract attention. He couldn't turn away as she was met by a gentleman, then as she'd turned to gaze out at the harbor.

It was almost as if their gazes had met, though he knew that was impossible. The distance was too great. And because a bonnet had shaded part of her face, he couldn't make out much of her features other than an overall impression of vitality and assurance.

He liked confidence in a woman. He always had. He was not attracted by artful giggles or coy helplessness. But because he was committed to the task his father had set for him, he had not allowed himself the luxury of a courtship, much less marriage. It wouldn't have been fair.

It had never bothered him. But now …

He'd been oddly struck by a longing so strong and deep—and unexpected—that it was a body blow. It had rolled over him like waves and even at that distance he'd felt a need to find her. To look into her eyes and try to fathom why his body felt warm and …

The woman had turned and the moment had gone. He would probably never see her again. He probably wouldn't recognize her if he did.

But he knew that was a lie. He would recognize that assurance anywhere.

Damn, he didn't need a distraction, especially not a momentary whimsy.

He went below to his cabin. He would be a different man when he emerged again.

Gabriel rented a carriage and left for his solicitor's office. His belongings would stay aboard ship until he decided where to have them sent.

He had not informed the solicitor, Reginald Pickwick, that he planned to make the trip to London. Pickwick was the son of the man who had betrayed his father, just as three peers of the realm had. It was ironic, he thought, that Pickwick, father and son, had remained employed by the Manning family despite the fact the firm had been at least partly responsible for the scandal thirty years ago.