Chapter Four

The line stretched out of Gabriel’s new lodgings and down the block. He never would have expected such a response from one small advertisement for a valet and housekeeper.

He hadn’t asked Pickwick to help him in this. He wanted servants he could trust.

Several of the applicants gave the army and sea as their last employment. The war with America had ended and so had the one with France. Soldiers and sailors were frantic to find means to feed their families and themselves.

Others were qualified servants who had lost employment through no fault of their own and presented extensive references. Some applicants he wouldn’t trust farther than he could throw them.

His attention riveted though on a tall, stocky man with a quiet countenance and a face both determined but weary.

Sydney Smythe was a former army sergeant. His eyes had been without hope when he’d entered Gabriel’s study, but he didn’t embellish his qualifications as so many others did.

Gabriel had always been an astute judge of character and he knew instantly that this was his man. When Gabriel had asked whether he’d ever served in a household before, Smythe said simply, “No, milord, but I am a hard worker and I learn fast.”

“And why choose this work now?”

“There is no other, milord.”

“I would not wish an unhappy valet.”

“Milord, I would be the happiest man in London. I have a mum and sister who are hungry.”

His brown eyes had not pleaded. Gabriel sensed he was not a man to plead, but hope was beginning to shine in his face. Through it all, dignity remained solid. Smythe was the type of man he would have liked at his side during the war.

“Well, I’ve not been a gentleman before, Sydney, so perhaps we can learn together.”

The man stood there, disbelieving. “Milord?”

“You are employed, Smythe. Two pounds a week.”

A muscle in the man’s throat pulsed. “But that … is too generous, milord.”

“I ask only one thing from you,” Gabriel said. “Total loyalty. Can you give me that?”

“Yes, milord.”

Gabriel believed him.

“Then you can dismiss the rest of the men and interview the women for the post of housekeeper.”

The man stood there for a moment.

“Yes?” Gabriel said.

“My mum. She’s a fine cook.”

“Can she clean?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Tell her to come by in the morning. I will talk to her.”

“I … I …” The man seemed to shake slightly. “Thank you, milord. I will do my best for you.”

“Then do not be too curious, Smythe,” he said. “That will be thanks enough.”

“No, milord. No.” He started to back away. “I can start today.”

“Just turn the others away, and bring your mother in the morning. You can begin then.” He fished in the drawer of his desk, taking out several coins. “You will need some clothes. See if you can find something today.”

“What would you prefer?”

Gabriel waved his hand. Smythe still wore the worn remnants of a uniform. “I care not.” He paused. “And get your family something to eat. It can come from your first month’s wages.”

For the first time, the man’s face broke into a smile.

“Yes, milord. Thank you.”

Gabriel turned away. In truth, he was humbled by the poverty and desperation he’d seen today.

He wondered whether the man’s gratitude would continue when he heard the rumors about his employer being a wastrel and an American upstart. Or even caught wind, somehow, that he had been a member of the American forces that had so recently defeated his country.

Yet, oddly enough, he’d felt an instant affinity for the man. Of course, others standing in line had been desperate too, but there was a dignity in Smythe that conveyed a sense of honor. Gabriel thought he would be loyal.

He didn’t want to pretend twenty-four hours a day.

And what would he do for those hours spent away from the gambling hells?

Gabriel had worked nearly every day since the moment his father had killed himself. He had made himself useful on the voyage to America and earned a few farthings. And when they had arrived in Boston, they were taken in by his mother’s sister.

Her husband had been a wealthy banker but had been barely tolerant of his wife’s relatives. Gabriel had decided the first day he would at least try to repay the charity. He had gone to school and worked every spare hour at a shipyard doing every menial job no one else was willing to do.

Eventually his uncle accepted him, even came to respect him, but Gabriel had stubbornly rejected help. He never forgot all the slights, the discourtesies that had eroded his mother’s spirit day by day. He was seventeen the day his mother died. He’d left his uncle’s house the next day.

He’d been befriended by the owner of the shipping company where he had worked, and he was offered a seaman’s post. He’d worked hard enough to catch the eye of the captain, who promoted him. In eight years he’d become a first mate, and had just been named captain when war with Britain broke out. He’d become a privateer, then an officer in the navy.

He liked work. He liked being occupied, and being merely a gentleman was not to his liking.

But being exactly that would fit the portrait of a man ripe for the picking. He would have to squander his hours.

At least tomorrow he would have a cook. He hoped she was a good one.

He spent an hour dressing, trying to tie his cravat into an elaborate knot. He swore frequently. He’d never cared much about appearances and had always tied his neckcloth rather carelessly. He doubted whether his new valet would have much more expertise than he.

The London dandy treasured his cravat. No self-respecting new lord could do less. Pickwick had assisted him the last two evenings.

Now he was on his own. Tonight he would troll alone. He’d decided Pickwick didn’t want him to find the men he was seeking. Which probably meant Pickwick knew exactly what happened all those years ago.

He finally achieved the result he wanted with the cravat. Not quite perfect. But pretentious.

He added a quizzing glass to his attire, letting it dangle from a buttonhole. Then he chose one of the canes he’d recently purchased, tucked it under his arm, and sallied forth.

Gabriel knew he would represent a target. He was big, at least in height, and—when he wished—he could intimidate the hell out of most people. But in these clothes, and with the vapid expression he’d perfected, he would be the prime mark for thieves. They might be in for a bit of surprise. He’d learned brawling early in his career at sea.

He planned to take supper at a tavern, then he would begin prowling on his own through London’s clubs and gambling hells. He now knew most of the rules, where he would be accepted and where not. He might even try to take on a club where he knew he would be barred.

A fine ruckus was what he needed.

He locked the door of the town house behind him. He’d been very careful as to what he’d brought with him. He wanted nothing to give him away, to reveal, in truth, that the new Marquess of Manchester was also one John Manning, a respected and feared American captain.

For that one reason, he’d used his middle name—John—since the days he’d left his uncle’s home. He’d known then what he was going to do.

The plan had festered for a long time.

Now he was Gabriel again, a simple American who had just fallen into luck.

He walked the streets, sometimes reaching for his quizzing glass to ogle a lady or a carriage in the street. It took a certain amount of practice to keep the bloody thing in his eye.

With every lady he passed, his thoughts returned to the actress, Monique Fremont. Every other woman looked colorless. Dull. Lifeless. She had literally brimmed with life, her eyes full of amusement that was part real humor and part sardonic. Unusual for a woman.

He wondered whether she had felt the same jolt of awareness he had, but then why would she? He was a fop. A dandy. A useless man with a title he’d neither earned nor deserved.

His thoughts turned again to Pickwick.

Pickwick had been efficient about the lodgings Gabriel had just let. He’d been efficient in obtaining the services of a good, if supercilious tailor. He’d also been helpful in introducing him to London’s nightlife, though Gabriel would have sworn that there were places he was not being taken for Pickwick’s own reasons.

Gabriel found a lad hawking one of the city’s newspapers, gave him double the amount demanded, and entered a tavern, where he chose a seat by the window.

Gabriel had been checking the newspapers for several days, finding this one to be the most likely to contain gossip. He ordered an ale and a meat pie, then glanced through the paper.

His attention focused on a column about London society, pausing only when he saw his name.

ALL OF LONDON IS DISCUSSING THE AMERICAN WHO HAS USURPED AN OLD AND HONORED TITLE. HE HAS BEEN SEEN IN MANY OF LONDON’S NOTORIOUS GAMING ESTABLISHMENTS.

The account continued to say the new marquess had been seen losing large sums in some of London’s most notorious clubs. It scorned his clothes, his speech, and his manners. Wealth and title did not equate class, it concluded.

Gabriel smiled as he read. A wealthy American ready for the plucking.

He wondered how long it would take.

His gaze wandered to a column where theatrical announcements were listed. He looked for any notice of a new play. He didn’t see one, nor did he see the name of the French actress.

Nonsense. He should be concentrating on three men, not on a woman who frequented gambling hells. She was probably looking for a protector, and he sure as hell couldn’t get embroiled in that kind of situation.

A woman like that was trouble. He suspected that Pickwick was right. And God knew he needed all his wits about him.

He dismissed her from his mind, wondering why she kept intruding there. He’d always had the ability to focus in on one objective and ignore distractions. And that was all she was. A minor distraction.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder whether he might encounter her again during his tour of the clubs tonight. He didn’t like the tingle of anticipation he felt. Not at all.

Thomas Kane, the Earl of Stanhope, leaned back in his chair and took a long appreciative draw on his cigar, then dangled it in his fingers as he gazed at his companion.

“So he did decide to take the title?”

“So it appears, Thomas.” Sir Robert Stammel couldn’t disguise the tremor in his voice.

Weak, Stanhope thought and not for the first time. Stammel needed constant reassurance. But his very weakness made him valuable. He was afraid of his own shadow, but more afraid of Stanhope.

“He realizes there are no funds attached?”

“Wicky says he claims he has funds of his own. At the rate he’s losing at cards, I would guess he has a fortune.”

“He’s paying his gaming debts?”

“Thus far. He’s said to be obnoxious, but thus far he’s been good for his losses.”

“Where did he get his money?”

“Wicky says he has been raised by a wealthy family in Boston. Supposedly from there.”

“And Pickwick thinks he intends to stay?”

“Wicky says he’s looking for an English bride.”

“Hummmmm.” Stanhope rose from the chair and went to the window of his country home, located some twenty miles from London. He looked out at the manicured lawn below him. He loved that lawn. It was orderly. It was also a useless extravagance.

He liked useless extravagances. They were symbols of money and power. Of freedom. His father had hated extravagances.

He turned back to Stammel. “I have a marriageable daughter,” he said. “A marquess would be a good match for her.”

Stammel looked startled. “Surely you are not suggesting … Pamela.”

Stanhope shrugged. “She is quite pretty when she takes care with her appearance. She might be good bait.”

“She is your daughter.”

“Sentimentality, Robert? I never would have suspected you of it.” He raised an eyebrow.

Stammel blinked rapidly. “I just thought …”

“It is time that the little country mouse became useful.” He paced the room. “I have never thought her attractive enough to be useful.” He paused, then said thoughtfully, “Perhaps a man who wants an alliance with a wealthy family can overlook a bluestocking with little looks. The season begins next week. I want invitations for her. Invitations that will include this new marquess.”

Robert sighed heavily, surrendering just as Stanhope knew he would. “She has not been introduced at court.”

Stanhope shrugged. “I will have a coming out at a small soiree at my home. Say she was ill when the presentations were made at court.”

“But the ladies at Almack’s …”

“I do not care about them. Nor do I care if she is accepted there. Neither, I suspect, will our American mark. He wants a good English wife. I will give him one. Pamela will not defy me.”

Stammel tried again. “Maybe this Manchester knows something about what happened years ago? Maybe it would be best to stay away from him.”

Stanhope fixed his companion with a stare he knew froze most people. “He was ten years old! A spoiled brat.”

“He found his father’s body, for God’s sake.”

“From what you say of this fop, he could not care less.” Stanhope paused, then looked at his companion thoughtfully. “Yet it wouldn’t hurt to make queries.”

“It will take two months at least.”

“One of our ships leaves for Boston on Thursday. Have the captain make queries about him.”

“In the meantime, perhaps we should stay away from London?”

“I will be bloody damned before I allow a Manning to keep me from London and my club. No one spoils my plans. The theater season is starting and I hear there’s a new French actress. Henry met her at a gambling hell. Said she was spectacular.” He rolled the cigar between his fingers.

Stammel returned to the previous subject. “He might remember your name. Or your face.”

“I only saw the brat once. And we were victims, remember?”

“I think we should stay away from him. I have a feeling—”

“You always have feelings, Robert. Nothing ever comes of them. Besides, I think this might be an interesting opportunity.”

“No,” Stammel replied. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Then you can stay in the country with your wife.”

Stammel winced. He disliked his wife and seldom stayed in the same vicinity. He was in residence here for that very reason. But he also knew Stanhope didn’t like anyone staying here when he was away. “You like playing with fire, Thomas. I do not.”

Stanhope shrugged. “Do as you wish. I’m sure that Henry will be as interested as I am in this new marquess.”

He watched Robert squirm. Unlike himself, Robert had grown fat and lazy, and, as he prospered, thanks to Stanhope, he had grown more and more timid. He was no longer hungry.

But he was addicted to Stanhope. Addicted to Stanhope’s power, and Stanhope knew how to use that tether.

“We will return to London tomorrow.”

“I hope you know what you are doing,” Stammel said.

Stanhope shrugged. He liked the idea of a second-generation addle cove. He had sheared one self-righteous Manning. It would be interesting to shear another.

Monique was tired. She’d spent the last two days in rehearsals that lasted late into the night. And her sleep was interrupted by nightmares. In the past few weeks, she often woke drenched in sweat.

She carefully removed the paint from her face in the dressing room. Dani had left earlier at Monique’s suggestion. There was little reason for her to sit around hour after hour. Lynch always made sure there was a carriage waiting to take her home.

Monique stared at herself in the mirror. For a moment she thought it the face of a stranger. The girl in her was long gone. If, indeed, it had ever been there.

She couldn’t remember a carefree moment, a second when she had not worried about her mother and their survival, not until she’d become a successful actress, but even then the past haunted her.

She wondered whether she could ever love a man after what she had seen and learned, and experienced. Perhaps when she gained a measure of justice.

She had not returned to the gambling hells in the past three days. She had made her presence known. Now she would wait.

In the meantime she worked tirelessly in rehearsals. She’d heard that London audiences could be raucous and critical. It wouldn’t fit her plan at all to be hissed off the stage.

So she’d thrown herself into the part. Her role was that of a wife who decided to have an affair to teach her wandering husband a lesson. She plans to take a lover but none suit. And every attempt to be “caught” ends in farce.

It was witty and clever and she and the principle actor played well off each other.

His blond hair and blue eyes contrasted with her dark hair, and unlike many actors he was tall. His off-stage comments, though, were often a little too amorous for her taste. He made it obvious he was seldom refused and considered her attempts to keep the amour on stage but a ploy.

She’d tapped him with her fan more than several times when he’d repeatedly attempted to press his attentions.

A knock came at her dressing room. Probably her leading man again.

She tried to curb her impatience as she rose and went to the door.

A man stood there. Older. Distinguished looking. A warm smile on his lips. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He bowed. “Mademoiselle, I am the Earl of Daven,” he said hopefully after a short silence. “We met the other night when you were …”

“Not being a lady,” she finished.

“But you could be nothing else,” he said extravagantly.

Daven. She knew from her research, he was one of Stanhope’s friends. Her trolling had netted a fish. “Merci, monsieur. You are too kind.”

“I was hoping you would take supper with me tonight.”

“I am sorry, my lord, but I have a previous engagement.”

Anger flickered in his face, and she suspected he wasn’t usually refused.

“Then tomorrow night?”

“Also engaged, my lord.”

“Is that for all succeeding nights as well?” he asked.

“Not necessarily, monsieur. But I have just come to your wonderful city and I have many friends who preceded me. Is it unusual that I wish to see them?”

“But you were at a gambling hell …”

“A foolish decision, to be sure, but I had heard so much about them I wanted to see for myself. And I had not yet found my friends. Now I have.”

“You are encumbered?”

“Non, my lord. But neither will I risk my reputation and future without knowing more about my acquaintances.”

“My title is a long and noble one,” Daven said.

“I am sure it is, monsieur, but that does not mean the man holding it is as honorable. And now if you will excuse me …”

The man looked stunned.

Richard appeared beside him, as if summoned.

“Monique?”

“Richard, this is the Earl of Daven. Monsieur, this is Richard Taylor, who is my husband in the play.”

Richard seemed singularly unimpressed, and she liked him all the more for it. He looked at Daven with suspicion, then at her. “Are you ready to leave?” he asked.

He’d said nothing about accompanying her home, and she appreciated the unexpected gallantry.

“Oui, merci. I just need my cloak.” She looked back toward Daven. “I hope you return for the play, my lord,” she said with a brief curtsy. She saw puzzlement in his eyes. And jealousy.

She also knew from his expression that she needed to be careful. He was not a man to toy with. Neither was the man who gave her life, then tried to take it. No wonder they were friends.

From now on, she would carry the small gun a friend had given her.

“You will excuse me, my lord?”

He looked displeased, but nodded. “I do hope you will have supper with me in the future,” he said.

“We will see, my lord. I hope you will attend the opening of our play. And bring your friends.”

“I will do that,” he said.

Under the glare of the younger Richard Taylor, he backed away, his gaze still on her. Consuming her. She felt a chill run up her back.

Then he was gone.

“Merci,” she said to Richard.

“I will accompany you home. I did not like the looks of him.”

“He is a lord with an important title,” she mocked.

He grinned. “I heard.” The smile disappeared. “Be careful, Monique. His kind thinks everyone and everything belongs to them.”

“I know. I will be careful.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You will permit me to take you home, then.”

“Non,” she replied. “Mr. Lynch has a carriage waiting for me. I will be fine, truly, I will.”

“I will accompany you to the carriage then.”

“That is kind.”

“I want to keep you safe. You are the finest actress I’ve played with. No fruit will be thrown at us.”

“I have heard of this English custom. Have you ever had fruit thrown at you?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But I attributed it to the play, not to my efforts.” His eyes were merry. And mischievously amorous.

“I will allow you to walk me to the carriage,” she said.

“Ah, progress.”

She handed him her cloak and waited until he helped her on with it, then left her dressing room and walked through the darkened theater. Richard stayed with her as they exited the door. As promised, a carriage and driver stood in front.

She glanced around. No one lingered, yet she felt as if someone was watching her.

She shook off the feeling as she allowed Richard to assist her inside the carriage. She looked around as the carriage clattered down the street.

As the carriage passed the next street, she saw a man standing in the shadows. Though she could not see him, she knew his gaze followed her carriage.

For the briefest second she wondered how wise this quest was. But it was too late now. She was committed and she would stay the course.

Gabriel finished the last of an excellent meal in solitude.

He had known he would have to play a waiting game, but it had become more and more difficult. He wanted the three to come to him. That was the only way the plan might work.

In the meantime he had to play the role of a fool, and he was becoming damn well weary of it.

So far his bait had not been taken.

He did, though, finally have food worth eating.

Sydney Smythe’s mother was everything the new valet had claimed. In the two days of her employment she had proved to be a good cook and housekeeper.

The only problem, he thought, was that she was too good and too kind. She had already started mothering him.

It had been a long time since he’d had mothering. The essence of his mother had disappeared when his father died. She’d become an empty shell, depending more and more on the wine bottle for solace.

Martha Smythe was of lean stature. She wore a nervous smile. Her hands had clenched tightly during the interview.

But once she had the position, she’d begun to show her nurturing nature. Piece by piece, Gabriel had learned her story.

She had been a merchant’s daughter who’d fallen in love with a soldier and married against her family’s wishes. She’d had two stillbirths and four live ones, two of whom died in childhood. Only Sydney, who’d followed his father’s path into the army, and his sister, Elizabeth, now twelve, survived.

Martha had relied on Sydney’s small contribution and her own meager earnings. She’d mended and washed clothes as well as baked pies for a nearby tavern that had also employed Sydney. When it burned down, they both had lost their main source of sustenance. They had reached the end of their very tiny savings when Sydney, in desperation, had decided to try for a position for which he was entirely unsuited …

It was, Gabriel thought, a small piece of fate.

At the end of the interview he had asked about the daughter. Martha planned to walk the long distance between her small room and Gabriel’s.

“This house is large enough for both of you,” he said. “There are several rooms above, and she can help you with the cooking.”

The gratitude in her face nearly unhinged him.

So now he had a household he really hadn’t wanted.

And a young girl would move in with them tomorrow.

He wondered if things weren’t getting out of hand. The more people around him, the more danger for him.

Yet, he hadn’t felt he had a choice. He knew what it was like to have nothing.

The problem was he didn’t expect to be here long. He planned to return to America as soon as he’d taken care of matters here.

Where would that leave Sydney and his mother?

He grabbed his cane. He needed a walk. A long one.

He started out, wondering where to go. He remembered the actress. Monique. The theater where she would perform was not that far from his town house.

Gabriel had resisted the temptation for five days.

He decided not to resist any longer. He would just walk by. Surely she would not be there at this evening hour.

At least it was a destination.

Flowers were delivered to both Monique’s lodgings and the theater. So many flowers that they filled the entire town house.

Most were from the Earl of Daven.

They left her unmoved. The only reason she had anything to do with Daven was that she’d been told he was a friend and companion of the Earl of Stanhope.

She ignored them and went up to her bedroom to read awhile before leaving for a rehearsal. She’d just picked up the book when she heard the knocker downstairs. Annoyed, she put the volume down. She truly enjoyed Walter Scott and his adventurous romances.

She went down the stairs and watched as Mrs. Miller opened the door and accepted yet another bouquet of flowers for which she would have to find a vase.

After Mrs. Miller shut the door, Monique looked at the bouquet of the most beautiful roses she’d ever seen. Not as elaborate as Daven’s had been. Not an ostentatious number of blooms, but perfect in every way.

She looked at the card and the bold black handwriting scrawled across it. “For gracing London with your beauty.” It was signed by Lord Thomas Kane, Earl of Stanhope.

She held the card for a long moment as she stood in the hallway of the town house. Then she dropped it as if it had just exploded into flames.

Her father.

Harriett Miller, the housekeeper, hurried over to her. “Oh, miss. These are so lovely.”

Monique wanted to tell her to throw them away. But servants talked. And throwing away a bouquet from an earl would, no doubt, become a topic of conversation. Still, she wanted them somewhere she wouldn’t see them often.

“Put them in the dining room,” she said. She rarely ventured there, taking most of her meals in the bedroom with Dani.

“But …”

Monique’s glare stopped the protest immediately.

She stood against the wall for several moments. This is what she’d wanted. What she’d planned all these years.

But now she wondered whether she could really complete the masquerade she’d planned. What would she do when she saw him face-to-face?

Would he recognize a daughter of his blood?

Would she have any feeling other than the hatred she’d learned from her mother?

Planning was easy. The execution, she realized now, was going to be far more difficult.

“Mademoiselle?”

Dani appeared from her room, where she had been cleaning one of Monique’s dresses. It was uncanny the way her friend always knew when she was distressed.

She tried a smile. “Everything is going as planned. I just received flowers from Stanhope.”

Dani regarded her solemnly.

Monique wondered if her face was pale. She would have to be a far better actress than she had been today if she was to carry this off.

“We can go back to Paris,” Dani said slowly. “You know Monsieur Fayssoux would be more than delighted.”

“England is my home,” Monique said. “And my mother needs justice.”

“Not at your expense.”

“It has begun. I cannot put the genie back in the bottle.”

Dani sighed. “Then we must go and make you beautiful. He will probably be there tonight.”

“Oui,” Monique said. “You must make me very beautiful.”