Chapter Five

Gabriel limped down the street outside the Earl of Stanhope’s town house.

He looked like an old man, stooped and battered.

No sign of life appeared within the house. He had gone by several times yesterday and again today.

But then most of the town houses appeared vacant other than a servant or two. The season would not begin for another few weeks, and the influx into London was several days away.

He had watched a servant leave twenty minutes earlier, probably to go shopping. It was a good time to get into the house and explore it.

He looked around. A carriage clattered down the streets.

He sank down on a step as if his legs would no longer carry him, then, when no one was in sight, made his way to the gate. It was locked, but he took only seconds to open it with a pick, and he entered the garden.

It was exquisite. Who cared for it while the earl was in the country? A full-time gardener, no doubt. Yet he’d watched all morning and seen no one.

He went to the servant’s entrance and rang the bell. No one came.

After a moment he used the two picks he’d obtained in Boston. A twist of his fingers and he was inside the house.

He paused to adjust his eyes in the gloom of the interior hall.

The walls were lined with portraits. He paused to look at them, seeking an insight into the character of the man. The men looked grim, the women joyless.

He moved through each room carefully, always aware there could be an unexpected retainer still in the residence. No one on the first floor. He went down the steps to the basement. The kitchen and what appeared to be a servants’ area were also empty. Satisfied no one was in the residence, he continued his search of the house, stopping in what was certainly Stanhope’s office.

A huge desk dominated the room. The surface was clear.

He tried the desk drawer. Locked. He used the small tools again, opened the drawer, and rifled through the contents. Personal correspondence. Invitations. Household sums. Nothing of importance.

He found Stanhope’s seal in a box near the back of the drawer and pocketed it, replacing the box. Hopefully he could return it before Stanhope noticed it was missing.

Gabriel had what he wanted. Still, he inspected the rest of the house, leaving the master suite to the last.

It was far too elaborate for his taste. Closed red velvet curtains darkened a room dominated by a huge four-poster bed. A large wardrobe sat against the opposite wall.

Gabriel absorbed the essence of the room, trying to fathom the man who so easily destroyed others. Then he moved around again until he found what he was looking for.

A safe.

Combination lock this time. He knelt next to it and sandpapered the tips of his fingers to make them more sensitive. Pressing his ear against the lock as Riley had taught him, he turned the knob, listening for the click of a tumbler. Left, then right, then left again. After several tries, he found the combination and the safe opened.

He reached inside. A box contained a necklace of emeralds. Several thousand pounds in banknotes. Shipping contracts. Why here? One he studied with interest and memorized the names on it. Then he replaced everything as it was.

He rose and went to the window, moving the curtain only slightly.

More people were on the street. He saw one woman heading directly for the town house.

Would she come in the back?

Swiftly he moved down the steps, then waited. He heard a turn of the lock at the back, and he went to the front door.

Locked, of course, and he didn’t have time to use his tool. He should have unlocked both of them just in the event …

He swore silently and ducked into the office as he heard footsteps moving toward him. They passed him and went up the stairs, probably to the third-floor servants’ quarters.

He hurried to the back, through the garden, and turned left on the street.

Gabriel patted the seal in one of his pockets. And smiled.

He’d accomplished his mission.

Stanhope wondered whether his flowers had been delivered. They had been sent from his own gardens prior to his arrival in London.

They were his finest.

He knew Daven. Daven never knew when enough was enough.

He wondered how his gift would be received compared to Daven’s and whether the man had made any headway.

Stanhope had a thousand pounds wagered on who would get the French bitch in bed first. And he didn’t like to lose.

It would be, he thought, a most entertaining season.

He had a servant out delivering invitations for a soiree at his home to announce his arrival to the social scene. Some families would not accept them, but others would, either out of fear or in hope of doing business with him. His interests were far-flung, including a shipping empire, banking, and interests in mines in Wales and the north of England.

One invitation had gone to Gabriel Manning, the new marquess. Stanhope was curious as to whether he would accept it or not.

He wanted to issue one to Monique Fremont, but that would not sit well with the wives of the men he had invited. His reputation among the ton was not the best since his wife died of a suspicious illness. Rumors swarmed about her death.

But his parties were also celebrated. He always had the finest food, the best wine and spirits, the most celebrated musicians.

He would outdo himself this time. He wanted to impress the new marquess.

Then he would turn his full attention to Mademoiselle Fremont.

Perhaps he would even visit the new theater this afternoon and take a glance at this woman that had so transfixed Daven. Daven had a taste for less-than-acceptable women. But they were always beautiful.

He might even invest in the theater company. He hadn’t done that before, but if the woman was all that Daven said …

He called his valet to help him dress and tie his cravat.

While waiting for Ames, he regarded himself in the mirror. Not bad for a man in his fifties. His hair was still dark, as were his sideburns. He took pride in not requiring dye, as did so many of his acquaintances. He knew he looked like a man ten years younger than his actual years.

Ames arrived, breathless.

Stanhope glared at him for not being immediately available, and the man’s hands shook as he tied Stanhope’s cravat into the fashionable orientale style that was damnably uncomfortable. Then Ames helped him pull on his highly polished Hessian boots.

“Do the cravat again,” he demanded. “It is not quite perfect.”

“Yes, milord,” Ames said in a quivering voice. Ames had been with Stanhope only six months. Most of his servants did not last that long, but since the war ended servants were readily available.

He tolerated Ames’s clumsy attempts for another thirty minutes, then proclaimed it barely acceptable. He pulled on a pair of spotless gloves—God help every servant in the house if there was the merest discoloration—and told Ames to see that his horse was saddled.

A few moments later he lifted himself into the saddle and guided the horse toward Haymarket and the theaters.

Monique saw two men in the back of the theater. She recognized Daven instantly.

She knew immediately that the second man was Stanhope.

She didn’t miss a cue as she tore her gaze away from them and toward Richard, forcing a gaiety in her voice. When she turned again, she saw the two men in conversation with Paul Lynch.

She concentrated on Richard. It was a trick she had learned long ago, to wipe away everything except the character she was playing. She even felt the attraction she was supposed to be feeling. For two hours she would be the wronged wife who responded with revenge and humor and a wounded soul.

For the rest of the rehearsal she was able to keep her mind on only the lines. Her stomach felt a haven for butterflies, her legs were rubbery. But she was the mistress of her fate in the play, and she was bloody determined to be the same outside the theater.

The rehearsal concluded. Mr. Lynch appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

“Monique?”

“Oui, monsieur?”

“The rehearsal is going well. You are everything I hoped you would be.”

“Merci.”

“There is someone you wanted to meet. An earl, Monique.” He looked embarrassed. “He offered to invest in the company.”

“I did not know you needed investment,” she said.

He looked uncomfortable. “Investors always help. They tend to bring their friends.”

“Who is this potential investor?”

“The Ea—rl of Stanhope,” he stuttered.

“The man you warned me about?”

He shifted on his feet. “You did say you wanted to meet him and this seems … fortuitous, would you not say?”

Greed had obviously overtaken his sense of protection. She expected no more.

“I will see him,” she said, “and I will be most pleasant. For your sake, of course. But then I am always pleasant unless someone makes me otherwise.”

She watched as he digested the warning.

“No one has ever proved anything against the Earl of Stanhope.”

“Do you vouch for him now, Mr. Lynch?”

The man’s face turned even redder.

“I will expect my carriage to be waiting.”

He nodded.

She left him without another word and went to her dressing room, where Dani waited.

“He has taken the bait, Dani. He wants to invest in Lynch’s company.”

Dani was already taking pins from her hair. “You are making him wait?”

“Oui. Our lord needs a little humility, I think.”

“Do not twist the tail of the tiger, mademoiselle.”

“Oh I plan to do a great deal of twisting.”

A knock came at the door, and Monique exchanged a look with Dani. “Answer it,” she said.

Dani opened the door a slit, peering out.

A voice obviously accustomed to obedience boomed into the room. “I wish to give my compliments to Miss Fremont.”

“She is changing clothes,” Dani said cooly. “It must wait.”

“I am the Earl of Stanhope. Lynch said …”

“I do not care if you are Father Christmas. You must wait.” She closed the door and turned back to Monique.

“We will take our time, Dani,” Monique said.

“Of course,” Dani said as she unbuttoned the back of Monique’s dress.

Monique expected impatient knocks at the door, or even a broken door. She knew about Stanhope. She knew from her mother, and she knew from local London gossip. He wasn’t a man who liked to be kept waiting.

Which was exactly why she was making him wait.

So she was surprised at the silence outside her dressing room as Dani helped her put on another dress, and brushed her hair back. Adding just a small brush of paint to Monique’s cheek, Dani stood back and nodded her approval.

Monique picked up her fan in her hand and opened the door.

A man dressed in riding clothes was sprawled in a chair outside the dressing room.

“My lord,” Monique said, bobbing just enough to make the curtsy look slightly mocking.

He bowed. “I am Thomas Kane, the Earl of Stanhope.” His gaze ranged over her like a buyer about to purchase a turkey for supper. A chill ran down her back as his nearly black eyes glittered with something close to malice even as his lips curved into a smile. If she had any doubts about her mother’s tales, she didn’t now. Here was a man who disliked women, perhaps even hated them.

She knew he had to be near sixty years of age, but he looked younger. He would have been a handsome man were it not for the coldness of his features, the arrogance in the way he held his head as if he alone ruled the world. He was of middle stature, not tall but not short either. Close to her own height. His lips seemed to have a permanent smirk.

“I am honored, my lord,” Monique said. “Monsieur Lynch said you were considering investing in our small play.”

“Not the play,” he said. “Nor Mr. Lynch. You, my dear. You were spectacular.”

“Oh, posh. We are not so ready. But merci, my lord.”

“I hope you will have supper with me.”

“Oh, but then Lord Daven would be very unhappy with me. He also asked and understood that my time is consumed by rehearsals. It is my art,” she said dramatically.

“He is my friend, and I do not think he will object.”

“That is very generous of him, but I do not socialize with investors, my lord.” She started to brush past him.

He neatly maneuvered his body to block her. The chill down her spine grew colder.

“Then perhaps I should withdraw my support,” he said.

“You may do whatever you feel best,” she retorted.

His face changed. Surprise, then annoyance, and finally something else. He studied her for a long moment.

“I believe I will keep my investment with Lynch,” he said slowly. “And how much would it cost me for you?”

“I am not for sale, monsieur, and you are insulting. Please leave.”

She wondered how insulted she should be. She wanted to be unobtainable because from what she had learned of him, he couldn’t resist a challenge. And yet … she knew he was no one to play with. He had tried to kill her mother. He might have killed his wife.

Still, to accomplish her goal, she had to have access to his home. And safely. She saw now that it would be much harder than she first believed.

He still didn’t move. Finally, after seconds that seemed like minutes passed, he stood aside. “I intended no insult,” he said smoothly. “I am accustomed to making it clear when I want something.”

She stared at him. “You make things much too clear, my lord. I do not know how you regard actresses in London, but I assure you I am not looking for a protector. I am not what you call here a cyprian and most certainly not a doxy that you can tumble in bed. I do the choosing, not the … gentleman.” She let enough of a pause pass before the last word to tell him she wasn’t sure she considered him as such. “And now if you will excuse me, my maid and I would like to leave.”

He finally stepped back, but his eyes said he was none too pleased. “I did not intend to offend,” he said, though it was obvious to her that he was struggling to contain his anger. “I hope you would not hold it against me.”

“I will consider that an apology,” she said, “and accept it.” She allowed herself a small smile. “I hope you will attend our opening performance.”

“You may be sure of it.” He bowed slightly, and, with the same arrogance with which he’d appeared, he turned around and left.

Monique heard Dani’s sigh behind her, as if she had been holding her breath for a long time.

“My lady, he is a bad one. I was afraid …”

“That he would hit me?”

“Oui.”

“A man like that commits his violence behind closed doors,” Monique said.

“Perhaps we should return to Paris. I am afraid for you.”

“Non. I have taken that first step. I am a challenge now, one he has to win.”

“And then?”

“And then I will find a way to prove he is a murderer.”

Dani was silent.

Monique willed herself to relax. She could control Stanhope. She just had to make sure she was never alone with him.

Dani helped her on with her cloak. In minutes she would be back at the town house and Mrs. Miller would have tea prepared. And a bath.

What a lovely thought.

She sent a lad outside to fetch their carriage.

A crowd of young bucks lounged outside as they left the theater. They had been gathering there the last few days as word of her arrival circulated. But this afternoon there were more than a few, each one craning their necks. One approached her.

“Mademoiselle, I was hoping you may consent to supper with me,” the young man said in deplorable French.

“Merci, but I cannot,” she replied in perfect English.

He looked surprised. Several others started to crowd in around her. Dani tried to move closer but was blocked.

“Please let my friend through,” she said.

Instead Dani was pushed backward and Monique’s unwelcomed suitor pressed closer to her.

She looked around, and toward the back she saw a tall familiar figure. It was the marquess she had met at the gaming hell, the one that eerily reminded her of the man who had attracted her attention at the harbor.

But now, as before, he had none of the presence she’d seen in the man who had dominated the deck of the ship, standing as if he owned all he surveyed. A quizzing glass was in one eye and he languidly held a walking stick. He remained in the back of the group, but his gaze on her was intelligent and searching just before his expression went blank.

“Pardon me,” she said to the man blocking her as the rented coach clattered toward her. She made a move for it, but the buck who had asked that she accompany him to supper stood in front of her.

“I am sure you would not regret it,” he said. He grasped her elbow.

“Release me,” she demanded, but by then the group of men had closed in.

“She said ‘release’ her,” a familiar voice said. It seemed lightly spoken, but an edge of menace lay underneath. She looked up, startled to see the Marquess of Manchester slicing his way through the crowd like Moses through the Red Sea. Oddly enough others parted for him.

She wondered why. He looked like such a dandy.

“Miss Fremont,” he said. “I must apologize for my tardiness.”

He looked at the man who still had his hand on her arm. “I believe the lady asked you to release her,” he said.

The man holding her arm hesitated, then dropped his hand to his side and backed away. Silently, Manchester watched. He knew her assailant would back away.

Despite appearances to the contrary, she once more had the impression of strength.

“Merci, my lord,” she said. “You are late,” she scolded, taking his cue.

The words made the crowd back away even farther.

She looked around for Dani and saw her fighting to get back to her.

“Monsieur,” she said. “My friend …”

Before she could blink, he gathered Dani to his side and brushed away any more would-be suitors. In seconds, he had cleared the way to the carriage and helped her and Dani inside. Without asking her consent, he joined them, taking his place on the opposite seat. “They could follow,” he said blandly.

She didn’t know what to say. She knew she should tell him to leave despite the fact that he had come to her aid. She wasn’t sure at all that she wanted to share the intimacy of the carriage with him.

The carriage driver hesitated before closing the door. “To your residence?” he asked her.

“Oui,” she said. “And then you can take this gentleman where he wants to go.”

She waited for him to give a location, but he didn’t. Instead, he lounged against the back of the seat, his long legs stretched out comfortably. His quizzing glass was still in his eye, and she wondered how he controlled it.

He had taken off the tall beaver hat he wore and now he tucked it next to him. “Infernal thing,” he said. “Hot as hell.”

“Then why wear it?”

“Do not all the well-dressed gentlemen in London?” he asked.

She looked at his clothes, which were not quite right. She couldn’t quite understand why. They were of good material, and the fit was right, but …

“I do not know, monsieur. I have not seen all the well-dressed gentlemen in London.”

He grinned at that. “Now that is a surprise, considering the number of admirers waiting outside the theater.”

“Why were you there?”

“I’m an admirer also,” he said. “Like the others, I hoped to lure you out to supper.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You do not look like a man who loiters around theaters.”

“Why not?” he said.

She studied him for a long time. “How did you manage to make those men back away?”

He shrugged. “They are of little consequence,” he said dismissively.

Monique didn’t care for that answer. It had a haughty indifference for others, even rude others. “I still don’t know why you were there.”

“I was thunderstruck the other night upon meeting you. And now look at how fortunate I am.” He turned his attention to Dani. “And who is this young lady?”

“Danielle,” Monique said. “She is my friend.”

Dani gave her a quick glance, then glowered at the man sitting across from them. It didn’t seem to bother him.

Monique narrowed her eyes. Something didn’t ring true. He was not the type of man to lurk in doorways, looking for a woman. He was the kind to storm inside.

She wasn’t sure how she knew that. His manner—except for those brief moments when he’d come to her assistance—was bold but not particularly attractive. He was overdressed and she abhorred such pretensions as quizzing glasses, not to mention the elaborate cravat he wore. She liked simplicity in a man.

The image of the man on the ship returned. She hadn’t really seen the sailor’s face. This man’s thick sandy hair seemed darker.

He seemed intent on keeping the silly quizzing glass in his eye.

“You were not, perhaps, on a ship a few days ago? An American ship?” She surprised herself by asking the question. She’d meant to daunt him with silence.

He unfolded his legs and she noticed how long and well-formed they were. She forced her gaze upward even as a surge of heat flooded her.

“Monsieur?”

“You have good eyesight, mademoiselle. I was on the Cynthia,” he finally replied after obviously weighing his words.

“You are newly come to London then. How is it you have a title?”

It was a rude question, but she was fascinated with him. And she had never been averse to asking what she wanted to know.

His accent had been odd, and she was usually good at accents.

He smiled. “My uncle died without heirs and his title came to me, the son of the black sheep of the family. I do not think the ton is pleased.”

A twinkle flashed in his eyes, as if he were sharing a small humorous secret. Then it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and he seemed to mold his face into indifference as a sculptor might do with clay.

“You are from America?”

“Since I was ten.”

“You do not have much of an accent.”

“My mother was a Londoner,” he said. His smile faded as he said it.

He was as unlike the man she’d met at the gambling hell as an actor was often different from his roles.

“Do you miss your home?” Her intended snub had all but disappeared. He interested her as no man had in a long time, silly quizzing glass notwithstanding.

As if he fathomed her thoughts, he took it from his eye and dropped it carelessly into a pocket. “Bloody uncomfortable things,” he explained.

“Then why wear it?”

He gave her an arch look. “It is fashionable, I am told.”

“If it were fashionable to jump in front of a carriage, would you do it?” There was the slightest bite in her voice. She didn’t want to be disappointed with the man across from her.

Or maybe she did.

“Perhaps,” he said, his lips twisting in a wry smile that belied the word.

He was confusing. As if he was slipping in and out of roles.

Knowing she should turn away and look out the window as the carriage paused in the crowded street, she still couldn’t take her gaze from him. A hank of gold hair fell rakishly over his forehead, ruining the well-groomed look, and it made him look more appealing, more approachable. His eyes were a startling green, a color more vivid once he’d stopped squinting to keep the quizzing glass in his right eye.

The carriage started moving again, and she looked out. For some odd reason she really didn’t want the short journey to end. She was enjoying the mystery. Worse, she was enjoying him.

That didn’t happen often. Nor did the expectancy that hung in the air between them. Her heart beat just a little faster, her blood flowed just a little warmer. She felt alive in his presence. Challenged. She hadn’t ever felt quite that way before.

Then, thank the saints, the carriage drew to a stop in front of her town house. “I am staying here,” she said, breaking the almost palpable tension between them. “I do appreciate your assistance.”

“May I walk you and Danielle to the door?”

She liked the way he included Danielle. And the fact that he remembered the name of a servant. Be careful, she warned herself. “Would it matter if I said no?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

Again he surprised her. Perhaps that was the challenge. He wasn’t doing or saying what she’d anticipated.

She nodded her head in response.

“I would still like to take you to supper.” He glanced quickly at Dani, who eyed him suspiciously. “You and your maid.”

She was tempted. She wanted to know more about him. She wanted to know why he was wearing the garments of a dandy when he was obviously so much more at home with simplicity.

Once again he didn’t fit the image of someone who cared about what others thought.

But the warmth flowing through her body, the unexpected tug in a place that usually did not respond in such a manner warned her off. She had a mission. She had to keep her head clear.

“Thank you, but no,” she said. “I am tired, and so is Dani. We plan to retire early.”

“Would you consider some other time?”

“I have none until the play opens, monsieur,” she said, effectively cutting him. She waited for an angry reaction.

There was none. Only the barest shrug, indicating he had tried and was not devastated that he’d not been accepted.

“Then I will accompany you to the door and return to my own lodgings.”

“No gambling tonight?” The question surprised her as much as it appeared to startle him. She was prolonging the meeting. She knew it and couldn’t help it.

“No, I have lost too much,” he said. But again there was something wrong. There was no regret. No worry. Just an offhand comment.

“I am sorry,” she said.

He grinned. “You need not be sorry for my faults, mademoiselle, and meeting you made it a small price to pay. But I hear you are lucky in cards. Perhaps you would teach me a little about the games.”

A twinkle lit his eyes again and she sensed in that moment he didn’t need help.

Before she could ask any more, the coachman had opened the door and the marquess stepped out. He offered his hand to Dani first, then held out his hand to her and caught her with the other hand as she stepped down.

Her face was within inches of his as he looked down at her. She felt his breath, heard the quickened beat of his heart. She suddenly noticed that his hands were no longer gloved and his skin burned her arm as her cloak fell behind.

Fire whipped through her as she looked up at him, her own gaze lost in his. They were deep and impenetrable. So full of secrets and shadows that a knot of apprehension twisted her stomach.

Yet she couldn’t step away, could hardly breathe at the unexpected need stabbing at her.

He leaned closer and she smelled some elusive male scent. She thought he was going to kiss her, and she was startled at how much she wanted exactly that. His lips passed her cheek with a feather touch, then he took a step back and dropped her hand.

“You are beautiful, mademoiselle. Much too beautiful.” His eyes glittered with intensity. They were no longer coolly amused. Instead they were like small green flickers of flame.

“Who are you?” she whispered. Her legs were barely holding her up. She felt weak and stunned, and that had never happened to her before.

“I told you. I am merely a man claiming an old and honorable title.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “You are not what you want people to believe.”

“Am I not?” he said. “Or perhaps you just inspire me to be more.”

She felt Dani’s arm on hers. “We must go,” Dani said.

Monique caught her breath, then nodded. She took an experimental step. Her legs did not fail her, as she thought they might seconds earlier.

She nodded to the Marquess of Manchester and forced herself to turn and mount the steps of the town house without looking back.

She didn’t have to look back. Everything about him was engraved in her mind.