Dancing with a Rogue (4 page)

He wondered if this Pickwick was still associated with Stanhope and his friends.

Probably.

Scoundrels hung together.
Now he would like to see them hang individually.

He had the address on the missive he'd received, informing him—quite curtly—that he was heir to the title of Marquess of Manchester. It had gone on to say the estate was bankrupt, but the property was entailed. He would be pleased to lease the property and pay off the debts. No need for Gabriel Manning to make the voyage.

But the title was the one thing Gabriel wanted. And so was a look on the face of the man who tried to persuade him not to leave America.

He reached the solicitor's office and stood outside for a moment. Gabriel's suit was ill-fitting and not in the best of taste, but obviously made of expensive cloth. He wore gloves and carried a cane.

He looked, he hoped, like a lout with more money than taste. And sense.

Gabriel used the cane to rap on the door. An arrogant, impatient rap.

A man he assumed was a clerk opened it.

Gabriel had the letter in his hand. “I am the Marquess of Manchester,” he said. “I wish to see this Pickwick.”

The man frowned at the obvious condescension. “He is busy.”

“He is busy,
my lord
,” Gabriel corrected. “I wish to see him to claim my rightful inheritance.”

The haggard looking clerk continued to stand there.

Gabriel pushed him aside and stepped into the hallway. He waited until the man closed the door. “Please announce me.”

“He … he is busy,” the clerk said again.

“I would think a marquess would be an important matter.”

“Ah … this is very unusual, but I will ask him.”

Several minutes later he was ushered into an office. Reginald Pickwick rose from behind a suspiciously clear desk.

He was probably fifteen years older than Gabriel, which would make him approximately forty-eight. He would have been a young man when Richard Manning had killed himself. He'd probably clerked or been a partner in this very office. Gabriel wondered what happened to the elder Pickwick.

Curiosity wouldn't help his role at this point.

There didn't seem to be anyone with him. Gabriel refrained from mentioning the obvious. Empty desk. No client.

Gabriel flopped down in a chair without invitation. He folded his legs as the solicitor eyed him with barely restrained contempt.

Which was just fine with Gabriel. He wanted the solicitor to think him an American bumpkin. Even more, he wanted the solicitor to pass on the information to the men who would think they could use him as they had used his father.

“I want to see the estate,” he said.

“It is in sad repair, and there are no funds,” the solicitor said. “I thought I had made that clear in the letter.” He looked down his very long nose and sniffed as if he smelled something not to his liking.

Gabriel grinned at him, chafing at the discomfort of the ill-fitting mismatched suit he'd purchased in Boston for just this occasion. But it was obviously making the impression he wanted to make.

“Ah,” he said, “but I have funds of my own, and, now that I am a peer of your illustrious country, which, I might add, has just been defeated by mine, I plan to make my way in society. Perhaps even make a marriage. I am told English gels admire titles. Even empty ones.” He made sure arrogance laced every word.

Pickwick's throat wobbled with indignation. Finally he found words. “What is your business?”

He studiously avoided the words,
my lord
, Gabriel noticed.

“Commerce, my good fellow. I am in commerce, but now I intend to stay here and marry a fortune. You would not know of any good investments while I seek a bride, would you?”

A vein fluttered in the man's neck.

Gabriel took some pleasure in that. Pickwick was sweating. And in a cold room. Why?

“I take it I now have the title?”

“It came to you on the death of your cousin,” Pickwick said. “Your father's family had no other male heir.”

“No gels, either?”

“A few daughters. Your cousins. They married well. They were mentioned in the will, but the title and house are entailed; they go to the next male heir.” He leaned forward. “Your grandfather always meant to disown your father, but the entailment is very clear and he could not find a legal means of accomplishing it.”

Gabriel grinned. “It is official, then?” he asked with mock ingenuousness. “You get to call me ‘my lord.'”

Pickwick looked as if he were being forced to drink poison.

“I would like to hear it,” Gabriel demanded, inwardly telling himself not to overplay his hand.

“My lord,” Pickwick repeated obediently in a choked voice.

“Now that sounds mighty good.” Gabriel stretched his legs out.

Pickwick swallowed, then, obviously trying to control himself, said, “I can try to let the estate. I have been making inquiries. I had thought to save you a voyage. I never thought you would wish to return …”

Gabriel drew his brows together. “I don't know why.”

“Your father. Many still remember him,” Pickwick said. “They may not welcome you. He was seen as … a traitor.”

“Did they shun my uncles?”

“No, but—”

“Then why should I be penalized for something my father did?”

Pickwick squirmed in his chair. “I am just advising you that you may wish to make provisions for the property, and return to your business. You would have some income.”

“I thought I had explained. I don't need income, and I rather fancy being a lord. I will stay at the Polten for the next few days, but I will need your help in finding more permanent lodgings in London as well as a tailor. Perhaps some gaming clubs. Most certainly introductions.”

The man's face paled.

“I will make it worth your time.”

“Why?”

Gabriel gave him another blank look.

“You would have your title, whether or not you live in America, and I understand the colonies appreciate a title.”

“They are not the colonies any longer,” Gabriel replied. “And they are not very fond of the British right now. Difficult to believe I am one of you.” He kept his tone light. In truth, he'd been less fond than most, and that was saying a great deal.

“Your father …”

“I hardly remember him.”

“I do,” Pickwick said, watching him closely. “He came to our house several times.”

It took all Gabriel's willpower to maintain his casual pose. He shrugged. “It happened a long time ago.”

“What do you know about what happened?”

“Only that my father killed himself and we left London.”

“Your mother told you nothing of your father's …?”

Gabriel kept his expression bland. “She didn't speak of him.”

“Is there any way I can convince you to leave England?”

“No,” Gabriel said. “I intend to take my place here. It is my birthright,” he continued pompously. “Will you give me the assistance I need or should I find a new solicitor?”

“Have you ever been to a gaming hell?”

“I've gamed.”

“That is not what I mean. Stakes are high in London's clubs. You will be laughed out of London if you can't match their wagers. And God help you if you do not pay your debts.”

“We do play cards across the sea,” Gabriel boasted. “I win quite frequently.”

Pickwick looked skeptical, but Gabriel saw the beginning of a gleam in his eyes. The implication of unlimited money was beginning to overtake his distaste for his client. Some of the contempt had faded in his eyes, replaced by greed he tried not to show.

The bait had been taken. “You will find me suitable lodgings of good address. Within five days. No more. And I would like to go gaming tonight. Would you arrange my admittance to the suitable clubs?”

“That might take some time.”

“Then some ‘hells,' I understand you call them.”

“I will try to arrange something,” Pickwick said.

“Now that's what I expected. I will be here at eight.”

He rose without giving Pickwick more time to reconsider. “I will let myself out. We can finish our business later. I expect to hear of several possible town properties tonight.”

“But …”

“I feel sure you are up to the task.”

He opened the door and smiled at the stuttering behind him.

Chapter Three

The interior of the building was dark and hummed with the sound of quiet muffled voices. A haze of smoke clouded the figures sitting around tables or standing in small groups.

Monique paused in the door of the club, the theater manager on her arm.

It had taken all her powers of persuasion to convince him to bring her after they had finished the first rehearsal earlier this afternoon.

This was, she'd been told, one of London's most notorious gaming hells. Titled gentlemen attended, but they were usually men who had been refused entrance for one reason or another at the more respectable clubs. Women were admitted, but “decent women” wouldn't consider stepping inside.

She was an actress and as such did not need to care about “decent.”

She wore a dress that came close to being scandalous. It was a dark blue velvet which barely contained her breasts.

Lynch had protested at first. But after a rehearsal that had delighted him and a supper during which she urged wine upon him, he had finally agreed to take her to one of the city's many gaming establishments.

And though he claimed reluctance, it was obvious he did not object to having her on his arm. She knew, though, that she would have to use all her diplomatic powers to fend him off tonight.

One face peered up. Startled. Then more faces turned toward her, as if a wave swept through the room. Voices stopped. Several chairs toppled as their occupants suddenly stood.

She stood as the center of attention, allowing glances to wander over her dress, her face. She smiled slightly, then turned to Lynch. “I think I would like to play a game of chance.”

He stood like a man struck dumb.

“Mr. Lynch?” she chided gently.

Before he could respond, several men approached, their faces showing a variety of expressions. Curiosity. Interest. Lust. She looked for someone nearing fifty, a man with dark eyes.

It would be too much luck to find him here, she thought.
Be patient.

But her name would be on many lips on the morrow, and that was what she wanted.

“Lynch,” one of the men said. “You sly fellow. Who is this vision?”

Lynch's eyes brightened. “This is the newest addition to our company, the celebrated Monique Fremont. She will be starring in our next play. Mademoiselle Fremont, I have the honor to present Lord James Sutcliff, Sir Jonathon Kyler, and Mr. Thomas Bryden.”

They crowded closer, each extending extravagant compliments and undressing her with lustful eyes.

But then by being here, she was proclaiming her availability.

Sutcliff was obviously the youngest, a gay young blade several years younger than she, and obviously wealthy, handsome, and all too confident. Kyler was older, probably close to fifty, with a paunch and a face marked by veins that proclaimed him a heavy drinker. The third, Bryden, was the most interesting. Polite, watchful.

“France's loss is our gain,” Bryden said. “I have heard of you.”

“I am flattered, monsieur.”

“I understand that you met Napoleon,” he added.

“
Oui.
He is a man like any other,” she said, noting the serious glint in his eyes. Admiration and something else. And how did he know about her acquaintance—such as it was—with Napoleon?

Sutcliff's gaze had undressed every inch of her and was now centered at the point where her dress covered her left nipple. Just barely. “London is indeed graced,” he said. “And we are doubly honored that you would visit this establishment. Are you interested in the cards?”

“
Oui
,” she said. “Very much. Monsieur Lynch told me the very finest players are patrons here.”

“Whist? Hazard? Which is your game?”

“Faro,” she said with a smile, watching as eyebrows arched.

“I would be pleased to stake you,” Sutcliff said.

“Thank you, but I can stake myself,” she said.

He looked startled, as if unused to refusals.

Bryden smiled. “That must be a first, my lord,” he said.

Sutcliff looked crestfallen, then a smile returned. “I will bet on your wagers, then, mademoiselle. I know you will bring me luck, and it's been deucedly poor lately.”

“If you wish,” she said with cool indifference. Her gaze circled the room, pausing to study each player, either sitting at a table or standing around a wheel. She wondered whether any one of them was her father. But that would be too much luck. Right now, she wanted to announce her presence in London and initiate talk about the famed and mysterious actress who spurned potential lovers.

If everything she'd heard about him was correct, he would seek her out.

Sutcliff offered her his arm.

She gave him her brightest smile, then turned to the theater manager and took his arm. “Monsieur Lynch,” she said with a deep chuckle, “is my protector tonight. I am new in your city, and I am not quite sure of your rules.”

“I will be honored to teach you,” the third man—Kyler, she remembered—said. “Supper, some evening.”

“
Merci
, but Mr. Lynch said he intends to keep me very busy with rehearsals. Perhaps you will attend one of the performances.”

She swept past them to the faro table, leaving the three men looking thunderstruck.

The play had started.

In the wee hours of his second day in London, Gabriel continued to throw away money at various gambling hells he insisted that Pickwick introduce to him.

He wanted to appear the fool, and he was sure he did. He was loud, boastful, and a poor loser.