Dancing with a Rogue (33 page)

Hell, he wanted her in bed again. He wanted her hands running over his back. He wanted …

“She is so vivacious,” Pamela said softly.

“Aye,” he said.

“I wish I could be like her.”

He looked down at her again, her earnestness was reflected in blue eyes that were not quite as dark as Monique's. Once again, he was struck by vague resemblances in their faces.

“I like you the way you are,” he said.

“You are nothing like they …” Again, she stopped.

“And what do they say?”

Her face flushed, and she went silent.

He turned back to his food. There were innumerable offerings of beef and quail, venison and salmon. The sight of so much food killed what appetite he had.

But he ate as his mind turned to more important matters, mainly the safe Stanhope mentioned. He wondered whether it had the same combination as the one in his town home. He had to find a way to get to it. The only time, he knew, would be at supper tomorrow night.

Gabriel had one day to find it. He and the others would be leaving the day after tomorrow. That meant he had to find a way to miss supper tomorrow night. He needed an excuse that would eliminate him as a suspect.

“Manchester,” Stanhope said loudly from the front of the table. “How do you find the English countryside?”

“I find your part of it very amiable,” he replied.

“You have not been to your holdings yet?”

“I have,” he said, realizing everyone at the table was listening. Stanhope was deliberately baiting him. He had to know, as everyone had to know, that his holdings were poor.

His eyes met Monique's. Her expression was masked.

Stammel spoke up. “Of course, your father's name is a problem. Everyone remembers—”

Gabriel bit back what he wanted to say. Instead, he said mildly, “That is history, my lord, and has nothing to do with me.”

“We have just been at war with America,” said another. “Where were your sympathies?”

“I have made my choice,” he said.

“Oh, posh,” Monique said with a soft laughter. “Such dull conversation. I prefer to hear more about the prince and the ball that has all London talking.”

In seconds everyone was talking about the upcoming ball that the Prince of Wales had announced. He was surprised at Monique's assistance and, indeed, how neatly she had accomplished turning attention away from him.

The rest of the supper was interminable. He engaged Pamela as much as he could, drawing out the fact that she also painted. Her eyes lit as she talked about it and her mare. She was obviously a gentle and sensitive soul, and he liked her tremendously. He hoped that the demise of Stanhope would make it possible for her to have her own life. He certainly did not want her hurt by his actions.

Did she love her father as well as fear him?

The meal finally drew to an end after plates of various desserts were offered to the guests.

They stood, and Pamela said, “Thank you, my lord. I will join the ladies.”

“Perhaps you will show me the gardens tomorrow.”

“Perhaps,” she said, then added mischievously, “Or perhaps Miss Fremont will.”

“I think she is occupied,” he replied.

“I think not,” she said, then turned and left before he could say anything more.

“Join us for brandy and cigars,” Stanhope said, appearing at his side.

“Of course,” Gabriel said. “And perhaps another game of whist.”

As Monique had left the table, Stanhope bent over and kissed her hand.

“I must entertain my guests,” he said. “But perhaps we can have a word later.”

“I have had a long day, my lord,” she said. “I plan to retire shortly.”

She saw anger in his eyes, and the effort he made to conceal it. He held her hand possessively. “It is time to make your choice, Miss Fremont.”

“Two more weeks,” she reminded him. “You promised …”

“I promised nothing. I thought only to humor you for a while.”

She looked up at him with an expression that usually won whatever she wanted.

He would have none of it. “Do not play with me, Monique.”

She felt a chill run through her, even terror. She forced herself to look up at him. “I made a bargain with the other two. I cannot break it.”

“We will see about that,” he said in a low voice.

Then he turned around with a smile and accepted a compliment over the supper.

She recalled Manchester's warning.

“Miss Fremont.”

She turned around. One of the wives was standing there. “We are retiring to the music room. Will you join us?”

It was the last thing she wanted, but she had no choice. She wanted to retire to her room. She wanted to sort out impressions. She wanted to wash away the memory of Manchester smiling so easily at Pamela.

“
Merci
. That would be very pleasant,” she said.

Aware that she was asked only out of politeness to the host and most certainly not for herself, she obediently followed the other ladies into a room dominated by a pianoforte. A young woman was asked to play and sat down at the pianoforte. She played well enough and had a pleasant voice, but the song had little appeal for Monique.

She wanted to leave and would have were it not for the presence of Pamela Kane. Monique found it hard to keep her eyes from her half sister, from the unhappiness in her eyes.

Just moments ago, Pamela had conversed with Manchester with lively interest. She had smiled.

Was her sister falling in love with a man Monique knew to be a rogue?

And what could she do about it? What should she do?

Manchester was only using Pamela to get to her father.

Just, she feared, as he had used her.

His leaving that morning remained a festering wound, but she had no intention of letting him know it. That was one reason she'd stepped in tonight when he'd obviously been a baited bear. She did not want to see anyone humiliated that way, particularly when she remembered the pain in his voice when he had spoken of his father.

Or was that too only an act?

Pamela rose, declared she had a headache. It was all that Monique needed. She too, stood. “I am feeling a bit ill,” she said.

Pamela's declaration drew sympathy. Hers obviously did not. She was an outsider, a curiosity, an oddity, and not particularly a welcomed one after the way all the male eyes had followed her tonight.

Pamela waited for her at the door and they left together.

Monique wanted to say something. In truth, she wanted to put her arms around Pamela and tell her someone cared about her. She wanted to warn her sister against Manchester, but how could she do that when she herself had made the same error?

Was it protectiveness or jealousy? If the latter, why?

Manchester was despicable.

“Thank you for what you did,” Pamela said shyly as they reached the second floor. “What Papa and his friend did was … unfair.”

Monique stopped. Her chance. “Be cautious of them all,” she said.

“But Lord Manchester is kind,” Pamela said.

Manchester was many things, but kind was not a term Monique would apply. A chameleon was a more apt description. A man who changed constantly, according to his environment and his purposes.

“He wants something from your father.”

“I know that,” Pamela said.

Monique was surprised at the confidence in her tone.

Pamela drew her over to the side of the hall and looked around, obviously assuring herself that no one was listening. “Can I tell you a secret? Will you keep it for me?”

Monique was startled. “You would trust me?”

“I saw the looks between you and Lord Manchester,” Pamela said. “I do not want you to believe he is faithless.”

Pamela was not the shy unworldly girl everyone thought. And now she was searching Monique's face for confirmation of trust.

“I will keep your confidence,” she replied simply.

“I … care about a man back home. My father will not even consider him. Lord Manchester sensed that. He offered me a bargain. I will accept his suit and he will give me his protection. As long as he appears interested, my father will not try to marry me to someone … I do not like. I know he does not care about me in a romantic way and I can be at ease with him.”

“And if it comes to marriage?”

“He will back out. I will be discarded. My reputation ruined. No other man will want me. Perhaps then I will be free …”

Monique was stunned. She suspected Manchester did not care about Pamela. Yet to spell out his intentions to Pamela was so foreign to what she had expected of him. He was a man who kept explanations to a minimum, who guarded his secrets as well as she guarded hers.

What other secrets did he have?

She tried again. “You looked as if you enjoyed each other.”

“Because we do not need to pretend with each other,” Pamela said. “He seems interested in me simply because of me.” It was said with such humble surprise in her voice that Monique's heart went out to her.

“Do you know your father well?”

“No. I cannot remember ever seeing him much as a child. It has just been lately that he has shown any interest in me, and I think that is to advance some plans he has.” Pamela reached out. “Be careful, Miss Fremont. I have heard … stories.”

Monique was touched. Pamela was risking much to warn her. She wanted to tell Pamela everything, but she feared she might be putting her sister in danger. If Pamela told Stanhope who she was, or let anything slip, they both would be at risk.

“Thank you,” she said instead, “I will heed your warning.”

“You and Lord Manchester … you are in love.”

“No,” Monique said, sharper than she should.

Pamela shook her head. “It was in your eyes, Miss Fremont, and in his.”

“Nonsense,” Monique said. “I care nothing for him. He is impertinent and a rogue.”

“Some women like rogues.”

“I am not among them.”

Pamela shifted uncomfortably. “I just want you to know. You are so pretty and Lord Manchester is handsome …”

“I appreciate your advice more than you will ever know, Lady Pamela,” she said.

Pamela blushed. “You will not tell my father?” she asked again anxiously.

“Of course not.” Monique hesitated a moment, then added, “I should like us to be friends.”

Pamela's face lit.

“And I would like to hear about the man who has stolen your heart.”

“I would like that, too,” Pamela said, her eyes sparkling.

“Perhaps we may have lunch together.”

“I can ask the cook to prepare a picnic,” Pamela said. “There are ruins not far away, and we can take horses. You do ride?” she added.

“Yes, but not well.”

“Then we will choose a mannered horse.”

“And you? Do you ride well?”

“Yes,” Pamela said. “I like riding. And painting. I would like to sketch you if I may.”

“I would be honored,” Monique said, eager to spend time with her sister. Thievery could wait.

“Then I shall see you at noon?”

“Yes.”

“You may have breakfast in your room, you know,” Pamela said. “I asked. I do not care for most of the guests. They are rude.”

“Except for Lord Manchester,” Monique said.

“Yes, except for him. He is different.” She frowned. “Most of the men are going hunting tomorrow. I am afraid …”

“Do not be afraid for Manchester,” she said. “He is a superb rider.”

Relief spread over her face. “That is good. I do not trust Lord Stammel. He does not like Manchester. He owes him money. I heard him complaining to my father about it.”

Monique didn't know if she concealed her surprise. She knew, of course, that Manchester gambled. That much was in the London sheets. But she was under the impression he lost, not won.

Different sides of the complicated Manchester continued emerging.

But now at least she knew he was not serious about marrying her sister.

She was relieved for Pamela's sake, and that was all.

“Tomorrow then,” Pamela said.

“Yes. I would not miss it.”

Pamela continued up another flight of steps.

Monique watched her go up, a lightness to her steps. For the first time she seemed a girl of twenty. A happy girl.

Monique was five years older. She felt eons older.

In just a few days there had been a change in her, at least partially because of Manchester.

Monique looked around the hall. No one there, not even servants. The men were smoking, drinking, gambling, the women listening to their younger members playing the pianoforte. She'd been such a misfit.

She did not want to be one of them. She never wanted to be one of them. Yet she'd felt such an odd sense of loneliness, of belonging nowhere. For the first time she wondered what it would be like to feel secure like those women did, to know exactly one's place.

Monique opened the door, hoping Dani would be there with the information she needed.

Dani was there, curled up in a chair, reading a book by an oil lamp. She put it down on the floor as Monique came in. “I discovered where Lord Stanhope's rooms are.”

“Where?”

“At the end of the hall,” she said.

Monique saw an odd expression on her face, something like wistfulness. She knew Dani well and had never seen it there before.

“Did something happen?”

Dani shrugged her shoulders. “I met a valet. He works for Manchester. He claims that the marquess is a kind employer, that he took in his mother and sister.”

Dani had always been sympathetic to Manchester, ever since that first ride in the carriage. Her attitude had changed after his desertion of her the other night, but now …

Monique pieced that together with what Pamela had said.

Manchester most certainly was an extraordinarily complicated man. She was also bemused by what Dani was not saying. There was a look on her face that told Monique she was holding something back.