Chapter Eighteen

Monique desired a bath. It had been a long, bumpy ride, and she felt dusty and stale. Mother in Heaven but she needed to relax after the long journey and particularly after seeing the detestable Manchester again.

After a parade of footmen filled the small tub with hot water, she slid into it. It was, unfortunately, not of the size and convenience of the one in her rooms.

But the hot water felt good. She wanted to wash away Manchester’s scent, which she imagined still clung to her. And she had business to do tonight.

The water cooled only too quickly, and she accepted the wrap Dani offered her.

She had to prepare for supper. It would be difficult with Manchester there. She would ignore him as he deserved to be ignored. Tonight she would be charming for Stanhope and his friends.

Dani helped her dress. Her gown was a deep red velvet with a low neck and long sleeves. It was a heavy garment, and not one of her favorites to wear, but it could hardly be missed.

A bell rang throughout the manor. Thirty minutes before supper. The maid who’d shown her to the rooms had explained that a bell would precede the actual call to supper.

Dani worked with her hair, pulling it to the back with combs and pins and allowing tendrils to fall to the left of her face. Then a touch of rouge made from red sandalwood. “You will put all the other women to shame,” Dani said.

“Rubbish,” Monique said. “I will look like the courtesan, the fashionably unpure.” And, she reminded herself, she was exactly that now, thanks to Manchester.

Minutes later, she was ready.

“Why do you not go downstairs and talk to the servants? We must know which room is Stanhope’s,” she said.

Dani nodded.

Monique took her hand. “Be very careful.”

“I always am,” Dani replied.

Monique opened the door, took a deep breath. Hopefully, this would be one of her last performances.

Dani waited until she left, then started down to the servant’s quarters, where she had been told she could fetch something to eat. She also wanted to pick up any gossip she could.

She left the room only to find herself grabbed by a well-dressed portly gentleman. “Well, what do we have here?” he asked. His breath was foul with whiskey.

She wrenched herself free and fled down the hall toward the back stairs. She ran straight into a body.

She looked up and saw a large man with red hair. His hands caught her and kept her from falling. He wore a plain dark suit, obviously a valet to one of the guests.

She backed away. “I am sorry, mon … sir.”

A spare smile broke a plain, honest face and she remembered him from the inn. He had been with Manchester.

“No need, miss,” he said, “I had something on my mind.”

There was something about the earnest smile on the man’s face. “I did also. An errand for my mistress.”

He paused and then said in a tone that seemed almost painfully delivered, “And I am looking for my lord.”

Dani knew she should hurry on, but there was something about the man’s steady brown eyes that kept her from moving. He was very tall. She was smaller than most women. His hands were big, his shoulders very wide.

His face was serious, his eyes concerned. His hands had been gentle when they had righted her. Yet there was nothing weak about him. She realized that immediately.

“The Marquess of Manchester?” she asked.

He looked at her curiously, then recognition lit them. “You were at the inn.”

She nodded. “He has called on my mistress.”

“I know little about his acquaintances,” the man said. “I was employed by him a few weeks ago.” He shifted awkwardly on his feet.

“You do not look like a valet,” she said.

“I was a soldier, but there is little need for them today. Lord Manchester hired me though I had little experience.”

“You miss the army?”

“I miss doing something I knew,” he said. “I make a poor valet. My lord had to teach me how to tie a cravat. I know I irritate him because I am always there. But I need the position and I am not sure how to please him.”

She smiled up at his earnestness and the way he seemed to be surprised at his own words, that he was even uttering them. She told herself she only wanted more information for Monique, but there was something about him that made her feel comfortable. “You are happy with him?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “He has been kind to my family. He gave my mother a position and allowed my young sister to move in. But he is not used to having a servant and I am not used to being one. We both struggle with that problem.”

Dani was fascinated with him. “You fought in France?”

“Yes,” he said simply, obviously realizing that she was French.

She smiled to let him know she understood. Then she moved away. “I have an errand for my mistress.”

“And who might that be?”

“Monique Fremont. She is an actress.”

“And you like your employment?”

“Oui,” she said, suddenly almost speechless. Dani knew she should hurry on. She had never dithered like this before. She had never even been tempted to stay a moment in a man’s company.

“I must go,” she said.

“I hope we will meet again.”

Dani was surprised by the fact that she hoped the same thing. Not only that, she wished she had combed her hair more neatly, that she wore something other than the black-and-white maid’s dress that she wore by her own choosing.

She could only nod and dart around him, heading for the stairs.

She forced herself not to look back. She didn’t have to. How could she forget his shy smile, which oddly complimented the large, formidable body.

Gabriel lost badly at billiards, but recouped at several games of whist prior to supper. Guests had trickled into the room, one by one, and by supper time money flowed at the gaming tables.

Stanhope had been the consistent winner at the tables, and Gabriel suspected he was cheating. Gabriel’s gaze would catch the earl running his fingers over the cards as he dealt. At the call for supper Stanhope had won several thousand pounds. As they parted, his host offered to keep the winnings in his safe upstairs. Games would resume later, he announced.

Gabriel followed his host up the stairs to dress for supper, noting that Stanhope continued to the end of the hall. He watched until Stanhope entered a room, then went to his own room.

Smythe was waiting for him. He looked odd, almost as if he were in a trance, but Gabriel had no time to question him. It took all their efforts to get him into snug-fitting pantaloons and a waistcoat that was so tight he thought he would choke.

When he returned to the great hall, where the guests were congregating, Stanhope was already there, Pamela by his side.

“Manchester,” Stanhope said. “You will sit next to my daughter.”

Gabriel bowed to Pamela, who was dressed simply in a white muslin dress with a high waist. Her hair was dressed only with a ribbon holding back curls. “Enchanted,” he said.

She gave him a shy, grateful smile.

He heard a loud gasp and turned around to see Monique enter the room. Everyone in the room had turned with him.

She was magnificent. Her head was held high and she walked in like a queen. The dress fell in simple elegant folds around her, and its color contrasted with the pale colors the other women wore. Her eyes flashed and her lips parted in a smile both seductive and secretive.

Several women waved their fans in disapproval, but the gaze of every man was fixed on her. Gabriel felt heat rise in his groin. Damn but his pants were tight enough already; he wondered if the sudden arousal showed. Then he noticed other men were having the same problem.

But only he had held her, had touched her intimately. Only he had heard her sigh with wonder.

He forced himself to turn his gaze back to his companion.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Pamela said in a small voice.

“Yes,” he said honestly. “But you too are quite lovely.”

Her eyes held his, seeking the truth of it.

“There is a fortunate young man, somewhere,” he said.

She smiled and it truly did take his breath away.

The rest of the meal was lost in trying to conquer the unruly emotions he felt. Desire coursed through him every time he glanced at Monique. So did anger. Despite all his warnings, she did not appear to realize she was clutching the tale of a tiger. He wanted to shake her. Hell, he wanted to put her on a horse and ride away.

She certainly wouldn’t listen to him now. She despised him. And with reason. If only he had realized …

He tried to make conversation with Pamela, but she was shy even now. “Your manor is exceptional,” he said.

“It is not mine,” she said. “I live with my aunt some miles from here. Papa says he is gone too much and that I needed a woman’s influence. But I know he doesn’t like me.”

He could not force himself to disagree, to lie. Stanhope did not care for another living thing. That was obvious. And he suspected she knew it and would detect a lie.

“What do you enjoy in the country?”

“I enjoy riding,” she said. “And read—” She stopped suddenly.

“Do not stop,” he said.

“Papa said everyone will consider me a bluestocking. He disapproves.”

“I consider reading an asset,” he said. “I admire intelligence.”

“So does Ro—” She stopped again.

“So his name is Robert?” he said in a low enough voice that their neighbors could not hear.

Her cheeks reddened. “You will not say anything …”

“No,” he reassured her.

Still, her hand trembled slightly.

“I swear it,” he said.

They were like a small island at the table. The gentleman next to him totally ignored him, and the guests across the table glanced at him as one would look at a zoo animal and then glanced at Pamela with sympathy. Monique had not once looked his way, and he noticed her deep in conversation with Stanhope. Too frequently her light laughter drifted down to him, and he wanted to …

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.

“Tell me about the valet.”

“He kept me from falling when I was rushing down the hall,” she said. “Then I saw him later in the servants’ hall. He is a former soldier, not a valet by trade. He needed employment to feed his mother and sister, and Manchester selected him over a large number of more qualified applicants. He did not even know how to tie a cravat, he said. Then when Lord Manchester discovered he had a young sister, he employed the mother and allowed the child to move in with him.”

The tumble of words was far more than Monique had ever heard from Dani before. Amused but still a bit wary, she asked, “What does this ex-soldier look like?”

“He was a sergeant and he is very large. But shy. His hands are huge but they were … gentle.”

Monique stared at her friend. Dani had never, ever used the word gentle before. Nor had she ever expressed the slightest interest in a man.

She did not know whether to be delighted or afraid for Dani.

Just as she did not know whether she should be afraid for herself.

She no longer knew what was true and right.

And of what to be most afraid.